


A Life More Ordinary

by elrhiarhodan



Series: An Ordinary Life [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, OT3, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamory, Polyamory Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:24:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this alternate universe, Peter Burke is an FBI agent recovering from gunshot wounds, his career is on hold and he’s becoming frustrated with the lack of progress in his recovery. Neal Caffrey is not a con artist, forger and thief, but a veterinarian who is, himself, recovering from a terrible and abusive relationship. Peter, and his wife, Elizabeth, have a very special marriage – they have, on many occasions, let others into their life and their bed. Peter and Elizabeth have been gently wooing Neal, who wants to be part of their lives, but is still afraid to enter into any serious commitment. Elizabeth, who had initially pursued Neal, is now wondering if a relationship with the young veterinarian is right for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life More Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> Continues the story that began in last year’s entry for the polybigbang, A Life Less Ordinary, but you do not need to read it to understand what is happening here.
> 
> Many thanks to my Beta Reader in Chief, miri_thompson, and to theatregirl7299 and coffeethyme4me for their endless support and cheerleading.
> 
> The prologue to this story was adapted and expanded from a story I wrote for my timestamp meme in July, All You Need to Do Is Walk Away, which is now off-line.
> 
> Artwork: Cover Art, Banners and Icons by kanarek13

  
  
  


  
  
**Eight Years Ago**  
  
He felt guilty about leaving Neal and taking off for Europe for so long. But the offer from the University in Bern was too good to pass up. Besides, Neal was pretty well settled in veterinary school, he had a good place to live and it was way past time that the kid stood on his own two feet.  
  
But for the past few months, Moz couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He’d been busy and he sort of dropped off the face of the earth, but he did remember to send Neal the occasional email. And of late, those emails had gone unanswered.  
  
Okay, so maybe Neal was pissed at him. They’d been so close for so long – like brothers – and when he didn’t come back to New York after Neal’s mother died, maybe the kid figured that he’d washed his hands of him.  
  
But that didn’t explain why his emails were getting bounced back. Each one of Neal’s email accounts were reported as "not a registered user" or "mailbox full" or simply non-existent. And the one that Moz had insisted that Neal set up on a private darknet server, the one he made Neal promise to check every day, was getting no response.  
  
He might have been a chemist, but Moz had contacts of all sorts. Friends in many places, both high and low, and he could have them investigate and report, but he needed to check on Neal himself. He needed to be a better friend. Of course, the university officials weren’t happy that he was not renewing his contract. They were worried that he was going to take their sensitive information and work for one of the big corporations. Clearly, they didn’t know him very well.  
  
He sent another message to Neal just before his flight left, telling him that he was on his way back home. No surprise, there was no reply waiting for him when he landed in New York. Instead of heading to one of his remaining safe houses, Moz told gave the cabbie the address for Neal’s apartment on Riverside. The sense of dread increased with each mile, and he was almost ill by the time the taxi dropped him off in front of the old mansion where Neal was renting a room.  
  
Three years ago, when he was getting ready to leave, Moz had spent some time getting to know June, Neal’s landlady. She seemed the motherly sort, in a rarified society grand dame way. Neal’s mother was more peripatetic than motherly – traveling the world in search of the perfect photograph and Neal needed someone to rely on. June seemed to fit the bill and Moz hadn’t worried about leaving Neal, at least not until Neal went dark on him.   
  
He rang the bell and a maid answered. When he asked for Neal, all he got was a puzzled look.   
  
"You know, Neal Caffrey? Tall, blue-eyed brunet, nice smile? Lives on the fourth floor?"  
  
"No, no one lives on the fourth floor, mister. Maybe you’ve got the wrong address?"  
  
The dread was sickening.   
  
"Who is it, Marta?" A voice that Moz recognized called out from inside the house.  
  
"Someone looking for someone named Neal. Says he lives here, but no one lives on the fourth floor, right."  
  
June came into the foyer, holding a small dog. She was still beautiful, still had that society grand dame look about her. But her face was cast into a worried frown.  
  
"I don’t know if you remember me…"   
  
"Yes – you were Neal’s friend."  
  
"I’m looking for him, but he doesn’t live here anymore?"  
  
June sighed. "You should come in." She showed him into the front parlor and gestured for him to sit down. She closed the doors behind them and Moz wondered why they needed privacy.   
  
"Do you know where Neal is?"  
  
"Yes." Just a word, no other explanation offered. But her expression spoke volumes.  
  
"Neal – is he … dead?"  
  
"No." Again, a single word.  
  
Moz wanted to be relieved by June’s denial, but her flat tone told him that where ever Neal was, she wasn’t happy about it.  
  
"Will you at least tell me what’s going on?"  
  
June took off the gloves, so to speak, dropping the polite society grand dame demeanor. "You just show up and demand answers? Where were you when Neal’s mother died? Where were you when he got involved with that son of a bitch? If you’re supposed to be Neal’s friend, you’ve been a pretty terrible one."  
  
Moz looked at his hands. "I guess I deserve that. But I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t help him if you won’t tell me what’s happened."  
  
June sat down next to him. Her anger gone, leaving only weariness. "You’re right, what’s important is Neal."  
  
"Then tell me what’s going on. What do you need me to do?"  
  
"Neal’s involved with someone. I’m afraid this man is going to kill him."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Mozzie always loved The Cloisters. This hushed bit of Europe at the northern end of Manhattan. He always loved the Unicorn Tapestries and the Medieval art – the combination of the divine and the mundane, the holy and the profane.   
  
Neal did too.   
  
June told him that The Cloisters was one of the very few places where Neal could go by himself these days, and it was one of the few places that he was willing to meet June. Neal was terrified that his lover (and Moz cringed at the word – no one who loved someone would do what the guy had done to Neal) would know if he went back to the house on Riverside and he'd punish him for that. Neal was also frightened that the guy would take it out on June. She was feisty but she wasn’t young and she lived alone. Neal had told her it was far too easy for her to be hurt and he wasn’t willing to risk that.  
  
So, once every few weeks, they arranged to meet at the Cloisters, in the gallery with the famous tapestries. But today, Moz was going to meet Neal instead of June. He had everything prepared – the safe house, money, the escape route. And he also had a preliminary work up on the guy – Matthew Keller – and from what he'd learned in a few short days, Keller wasn't just abusive. He was evil.  
  
According to the information June had provided, Keller fit the classic pattern of an abusive controller. She said that from the first, he had all but overwhelmed Neal with his attentions. They’d dated for just a few weeks before he was urging Neal to move in with him. June didn’t know why she disliked the man from the moment she’d met him – but she said her antipathy was almost instantaneous. Maybe it was that Keller was supposed to be an FBI agent, and her own interactions with law enforcement over the years were coloring her perceptions. So she kept her own counsel, and now regretted it. Neal had given into Keller's pressure to move out of his apartment in her house. Once that happened, Keller had started isolating Neal – from the little they had spoken before things turned violent – he was only allowed out to go to his classes. Keller needed to know where he was nearly every minute of the day. All his friends – and there were a precious few of those – were cut off.   
  
At first, Neal wouldn’t hear anything bad about him; he had told her she was worried for nothing. Matthew loved him, he wanted to care for him and be with him and Neal was so very happy. That lasted for all of three months. But June refused to let Neal disappear out of her life, and had suggested that they meet one afternoon at the Cloisters. When Neal had refused to take off his sunglasses inside the dimly lit gallery, she knew what was happening to him. It took months of gentle pressure to just get him to admit that Matthew was hitting him, and at first he kept saying that he deserved it, that it was all his fault. Finally, he had told her that he was afraid that Matthew would kill him if he left.   
  
Moz figured that Neal hadn’t told June everything – but he was grateful that Neal had at least admitted that the relationship had gone sour. It would be much more difficult to extract him if he thought he still loved the man. When he talked to Neal, he’d be able to judge just how much damage the guy had caused.  
  
He had to be careful, though. If Neal thought he was being set up, that Moz was trying to stage an intervention, he just might run back to his abuser. His friend wasn’t stupid, but if he’d been brainwashed, anything was possible.  
  
The gallery was dimly lit and Moz took up a position that gave him a good view of the bench where Neal was supposed to meet June. A little after two, Neal showed up, a cast on his hand and looking nothing like the vibrant young man that Moz had left behind two and a half years ago. He was poorly groomed, his hair long and greasy. Neal had always been slim, but now even the oversized sweater he was wearing couldn’t disguise the skeletal thinness of his body. What was worse was the way Neal moved, as if he were afraid of his own shadow, always looking over his shoulder.  
  
Moz casually wandered over to bench where Neal was sitting. As he approached, he saw the bruises on Neal’s face. He swallowed his rage and pretended that this was a meeting of pure chance.  
  
"Neal?"  
  
His friend looked up, eyes wide, like a startled deer before they clouded in shame. "Hey, there." Neal’s voice was hoarse, as if he had a bad cold. "When did you get back to New York?"   
  
Somehow, Moz didn’t think that Neal was sick. But he answered casually. "About a week ago. Bern was getting boring and there’s only so much chocolate a man can eat."  
  
That barely got a smile out of Neal. "You’re looking prosperous, Moz."  
  
"I’m okay. But you, _mon frère_ look like shit."  
  
Neal, of course, denied that anything was wrong. Moz knew better. He carefully lifted Neal to his feet and pulled at his sweater, exposing finger-shaped bruises around his throat. Even though he knew the answer, Moz still had to ask. "Who did this to you?"  
  
Shame washed across Neal’s face. He didn’t answer.  
  
"Neal…"   
  
"Don’t pity me, Moz. Don’t _fucking_ pity me."  
  
Moz knew the details, but he needed to get them from Neal, too. It was a horrible thing to force his friend to say what was happening to him out loud, but unless he did, Moz couldn’t be positive that Neal wouldn’t go back to that bastard. Not that he wasn’t going to do everything possible to prevent that, but it meant different plans, different safeguards.  
  
Neal started to talk, his voice raw. Even though he could barely speak above a whisper, Moz didn’t trust that there weren’t people listening, and he herded Neal out of the museum, towards the Heather Gardens.  
  
His interrogation was gentle but relentless. It was so difficult not to give vent to his own anger, to keep pretending that this was just a chance meeting and that he was acting on the instant opportunity. By the time Neal had finished his recitation, Moz knew that Neal wasn’t going to go back to Keller if he had the chance to escape.  
  
Things became a lot easier.  
  
He gave Neal instructions on how to travel to the safe house he had set up, grateful that his friend didn’t think to ask why, after over two years in Europe, he had one ready and waiting. He gave him money, the security code and a burner phone before hustling him into a cab. Moz wasn’t sure that sending Neal off alone was the best thing to do, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed to meet with some friends who would help him start the process of destroying Matthew Keller, FBI agent.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Guns weren’t ordinarily his thing. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t find a use for them. Waiting for Matthew Keller to come home, he checked and re-checked the Ruger. Full magazine – check. One round chambered – check. Silencer attached – check. Sights aligned – check. Safety off – check.   
  
Moz didn’t like the idea of killing a Fed, and not because he had any respect for the Bureau or its agents. But if ever there was a Fed that needed killing, his name was Matthew Keller.   
  
Sallie came up aces, hacking into the Bureau computers and put her network of fellow information brokers at his disposal. In the five days since Moz had set Neal on the path to freedom, he’d amassed a dossier on Keller that should give the Suits nightmares for decades. Copies of the data were already landing on desks in New York and D.C., and his own people had instructions to release the information to certain other people – of the Russian persuasion – if Moz himself disappeared. Of course, Moz might just decide to give them the information anyway.  
  
It was a good thing he was a patient man, because Matthew Keller didn’t come home for another two hours. Moz had used the time well, though. He’d retrieved Neal’s driver’s license and passport and other important papers. He also helped himself to most – but not all – of the cash he found under the floorboard. Twenty grand would go a long way in financing Neal’s new life.  
  
He also prepped the room for a potential disposal.   
  
Spread out on the floor was a brand new plastic tarp and there was a roll of duct tape in the backpack resting against the chair. Amazing stuff, duct tape. So useful. There was also a spray bottle of bleach in case it got messy.  
  
A little after six, Keller burst into the apartment and slammed the door behind him. From his vantage point in the bedroom, Moz watched Keller take off his holster, and in an extremely bizarre move, put the gun in the fridge and take out a beer. He waited as Keller checked the answering machine, listening to him as he cursed that there were no messages on it. Presumably the crash and clatter was the poor, blameless machine being flung across the room.  
  
It was actually kind of surreal listening to Keller rage about Neal, how he was going to take him apart piece by piece, how he’d beg for death once he was done with him. But if only he’d come home.  
  
The tantrum went on for another ten, fifteen minutes. Keller finally calmed down, and Moz could hear him panting like an overheated dog. He hoped that Keller would finally come into the bedroom – he was getting bored waiting.  
  
And at last, he did.  
  
The man was not only evil, but surprisingly careless as well. He didn’t even turn the light on and check the shadows. Moz made no attempt to hide, but it took Keller more than a few seconds to realize he wasn’t alone. His reaction to stepping on the plastic tarp would have been amusing if not for the fact that Moz was ready to kill him.  
  
"What the fuck?"  
  
Moz turned on the floor lamp, erasing the shadows. The gun stayed in his lap, for the moment.  
  
"Who the _hell_ are you?"  
  
"My name isn’t important." Moz got down to business. "What’s important is that you are going to forget you ever met Neal Caffrey or that you ever met any of his friends or relations. He doesn’t exist for you, and from this moment forward, he never did."  
  
"And why is that?" Keller didn’t sound quite like a mad dog now. More like a wolf before it ripped your throat out.  
  
"Because if you don’t, this – " Moz tossed a file onto the floor. "Will end up in the hands of OPR within the hour."  
  
Keller bent down and picked up the file, keeping his eyes on Moz; Moz didn’t break eye contact. Keller finally looked down – not as a gesture of submission – instead to examine the contents. The man had a terrible poker face – or maybe he simply wasn’t bothering to hide his emotions.  
  
"You think you’ve won something, sweetheart?"  
  
"Well, you’re certainly no prize."  
  
"You’re a dead man, you know that?"  
  
"No, actually you are. You’re about as close to death as you’ve ever been in your entire life." Moz lifted the gun. "I could kill you now and save myself a lot of heartache."  
  
Keller sneered, and one hand started to disappear behind his back.  
  
"Your hands stay where I can see them." Moz kept the gun steady.   
  
"And if I agree to forget about Caffrey? What then?"  
  
"You live, I burn all my copies of that file, and we never see each other again."  
  
"Why should I trust your word?"  
  
Moz snapped back, "Why should I trust _you_ at all? It’s quite a philosophical problem, isn’t it? The classic ethical dilemma. We both have something the other wants, but unless we trust each other, neither of us will be satisfied." Moz paused for effect, and then sighted the gun at Keller’s chest. "Or I could kill you like the vermin you are, roll you up in the plastic and dump your body where it would never be found. Did you know that the continental shelf drops to a half mile deep just thirty miles out? That’s a long, long way down. Of course, it’s possible that the sharks would get to your body before it settled."  
  
He must have been convincing as a hit man, because Keller gave in. "So kill me and be done with it." There was actually a touch of fear under the bravado. _Good_.  
  
"I think not. At least, not today. But I’ll be watching and listening. You make a move towards Neal or anyone he’s associated with, and I won’t give you the courtesy of a warning. I’ll drop you where you stand and be done with it." Moz meant every word. He’d never killed a man, but he could end this bastard without losing a moment’s sleep.  
  
Keller gave him a brief nod and Moz stood up. But he wasn’t a fool; he kept the gun pointed at him. "So, we have a deal?"  
  
"Yeah, we have a deal. I never heard of that little prick, Neal Caffrey."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Or his friends. Satisfied?"  
  
For the moment, he was. "Then there’s nothing left to say."   
  
Keller spat at his feet.  
  
Moz didn’t turn his back on Keller as he made his way out of the apartment, but the space between his shoulder blades itched until he was on the street and in the subway. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill the man. He hoped the FBI would take him out of play and then the Russians would finish the job.   
  
But if they didn’t, Moz wouldn’t hesitate. Killing Matthew Keller would be like putting down a rabid dog. A public service.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
**Now**  
  
Elizabeth looked at her watch for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes and started to drum her fingernails on the table. Neal was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. "He’s bailed on us." Disappointment was thick in her voice.  
  
"Hon, something might have come up." Peter responded. He was upset, too, but didn’t want to let it show.  
  
That didn’t seem to mollify her. "He could have called; he could have let us know he was going to be late." El picked up her wineglass and Peter was surprised at how much her hands were shaking. "He’s not coming."  
  
Peter sighed. He didn’t want to agree with his wife in this instance, he didn’t want to think that Neal had skipped out on their first "official" date without so much as a courtesy call or even a text message. But given the man’s history, it was quite possible that he’d decided he wasn’t ready for taking the next step in a relationship with them. "Let me call him."  
  
Neal’s cell phone went right to voice mail, and the phone in his clinic rang until the machine picked up. Peter didn’t bother to leave a message. "Let’s give him a little while longer, okay?"  
  
El shrugged. It was a gesture that should have conveyed her lack of concern but only showed how much she was hurt.   
  
"Hon? Do you want to just go now?"  
  
"No. No – I should be more patient. Neal’s got very justifiable issues, but I thought that after everything, he’d trust us enough to let us know that he couldn’t handle a dinner date."   
  
His wife sounded so sad. Peter got up and slid into the banquette next to her. They’d picked a local diner, someplace low-key and ordinary. So ordinary, in fact, that this could barely be considered a dinner date at all, unless it was the 1950‘s, you were sixteen years old and hoping to share a milkshake with your high school crush.  
  
"It’s okay, hon. You’ve been so strong and it’s hard to hold back when you want something so much."  
  
El rested her head against Peter’s shoulder. "I know I need to be more patient, I know that this is a huge step for him. But sometimes …"  
  
Peter kissed his wife’s brow and let the last word linger. He didn’t need to fill in the blank. She’d been through so much over the past year and he wished, more than anything, he could just give her everything she wanted. She’d been his rock, the very foundation of his life and she kept him moving forward when everything in him wanted to just give up. And when Neal had disappeared out of their lives so soon after they’d met, she had taken it badly.  
  
They waited for another twenty minutes before courtesy (and boredom) dictated that they give up their table. It was Friday, and the late October evening was chilly, but there were people were lined up outside, waiting to be seated.  
  
Peter paid for the two glasses of wine, left a generous tip and escorted Elizabeth outside. The diner was close enough to home that they walked, which was good exercise for his still healing leg. He couldn’t help but think of how much he had anticipated the end of this meal, walking home with Elizabeth on one side, Neal on the other. They might not have ended up doing anything more than sharing kisses at the front door, but damn, he’d been looking forward to those kisses all week.  
  
When they got home, El let Satchmo out in the backyard and Peter checked his phone again. Still no call, no text, no nothing from Neal. He tried not to be irritated. That was the last thing that Neal needed, a jealous and controlling boyfriend, although Peter cringed at the term _boyfriend_.   
  
And yet, he couldn’t help but worry. He’d thought that Neal had trusted them enough to let them know if something bothered him, if they were moving too fast. In the two months since Neal had told them about the horror story that Matthew Keller had made of his life, the three of them had moved forward, very slowly, very carefully, towards a relationship.  
  
They’d fallen into the habit of going for walks together. Sometimes Elizabeth joined them, but it was usually just him and Satchmo and Neal. He’d take the puppy and walk to Neal’s office in the late afternoon, just as clinic hours were ending and they’d walk home together. It was perfect, since Neal lived just a handful of blocks away.   
  
Most nights, Peter invited Neal in for coffee, hoping it would lead to something more. But Neal almost always declined and they’d end the walk at the curb in front of the house. But earlier this week, Neal made the first move and brushed his lips against Peter’s. It was nothing like the kiss they’d shared after the first time Neal had come for dinner – before Peter and El learned just how wary, just how damaged Neal was. That kiss was brief, tentative, but Peter could feel the desire humming between them. It took all his willpower not to step closer, not to prolong the contact, not to overwhelm Neal.  
  
Neal had stepped back, wearing a wry smile. He just said goodnight and like every other night, Peter watched him as he walked down the block. Satchmo whimpered and strained on his leash, wanting to follow. Peter didn’t even tug on the leash; he felt exactly the same way.  
  
With that single, fleeting kiss, Peter knew that they were getting closer to the next stage in this relationship. Neal had met him for lunch a few times, and he had dinner at the house. Afterwards, the three of them sat together and watched the ball game, which was constantly interrupted by Satchmo trying to climb onto Neal’s lap. Last Sunday, Neal had invited them over for brunch.   
  
Tonight; however, was the first time that they had made plans to go out together as a threesome. Neal was going to meet them at the diner; ostensibly nothing more than three friends getting together for an easy meal. Then home, where Peter and El hoped they’d start exploring how far they could push each other’s boundaries. To Peter, it seemed such so harmless, so free of anything to fear, but then, he only had the barest outline of what Neal had suffered.   
  
Through a strange set of coincidences, he knew Matthew Keller, former FBI agent and a disgrace to his badge. He knew just how evil and sadistic the man had been and when his Russian connections ended his life in a supposedly secure prison cell, Peter hadn’t mourned in the least. He always believed that justice was more effective than vengeance and he never condoned vigilantism, but now, knowing the horror that Keller had inflicted on Neal, Peter couldn’t stop wondering if he had the opportunity to "take care" of that rat bastard, if he could really let that opportunity pass him by.   
  
Sometimes it was difficult to remember how badly Neal was damaged. They’d laugh and talk and argue and he’d hold his own against him and El, not afraid to get his point. And then there were those moments when Peter would see the terrible shadows in Neal’s eyes. How he’d flinch at loud voices. Never his or El’s, but when they were walking home and encountered something unexpected. This was Brooklyn and there were always kids and hipsters about, and no one seemed to have any issue about having good natured shouting match on the street.  
  
Neal would smile and pretend that nothing was wrong, but Peter knew otherwise.  
  
El came back inside with Satchmo, who took it into his head that Peter wanted to play "chase me." The puppy was barking and running around the living room like, well, a puppy.   
  
Over Satchmo’s barks, El said, "I think he needs a real walk, hon."  
  
The dog must have understood, because he rushed over to the coatrack where his leash hung and kept barking at Peter to take him out. "My lord and master commands, how can I not obey?"  
  
El gave him a shove. "Take him for a good long walk and I’ll fix us something for supper."  
  
He put Satchmo’s leash on and gave his wife a quick grin and an awkward bow, "My lady and mistress commands, how can I not obey?"  
  
As Satch almost pulled him down the front steps, Peter realized, at almost eleven months old, the pup was nearly full grown. It was well past the time that he should be a little more disciplined. Not that his boy was badly behaved or destructive, he just got overly enthusiastic at the wrong times. Like the end of the day when all good dogs should be content to curl up in their beds and let their masters and mistresses enjoy their evenings at home.  
  
Peter wondered if Neal could recommend a trainer.   
  
And thinking of Neal brought back the general feeling of anxiety about his lack of communication. He tugged at Satchmo’s leash and headed towards the office. His dog, realizing that they were going to visit one of his favorite humans, tried to establish a brisk pace, but Peter shortened the lead, bringing Satch up short. He had a difficult workout with the physical therapist this afternoon and wasn’t up to anything more strenuous than a slow amble down Warren Street.  
  
As they approached, Peter’s worry doubled. Cobble Hill was a family oriented neighborhood, but no place in New York City was immune from crime. Here he was, with an exuberant puppy, a barely healed leg injury and no sidearm going to check on someone who’d been unaccountably absent. One part of him said to turn off the cop instincts, another part suggested that he might want to call for backup or at least go back to the house, drop off the dog and get his gun, and the remaining part…  
  
Well, that part felt a thread of fear as he arrived at Neal’s office and saw that the lights were still on.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal sat on the floor of the operating room, head buried in his hands. This might have been the worst moment of his life since he became a practicing veterinarian – his _professional_ life, that was to say.  
  
He’d been about to close up for the weekend, eager to meet Peter and Elizabeth for their first dinner date when someone pounded on the door, begging for help.  
  
A small, tear-stained child rushed in, followed by a man holding a badly wounded dog.  
  
The father pleaded, "She was mauled – can you save her?"  
  
But Neal couldn’t. He tried and tried, but there was too much damage. Not only had other dogs torn at her face and throat, but they savaged her belly, which held her near-term pups. As the dam bled out, Neal tried to save at least one, but it was a futile effort. All of them were dead.  
  
The cops came, animal control came, the little girl’s mother and grandmother came, but Neal knew none of this as he tried to do the impossible. When he came out of the operating room and was confronted by the hopeful looks of that poor dog’s owners, his heart broke all over again.  
  
Neal stood there, blood on his scrubs, surgical cap in hand, feeling utterly bereft.  
  
Neal had apologized to the family, explaining as gently as possible, that her wounds had been too severe, and that even the puppies, just a week from term, had been killed. He probably shouldn’t have said, "I’m sorry. I tried." He probably just created a liability nightmare for himself, but looking at those faces, how could he not apologize for failing to do the impossible?   
  
The family left first; then Neal made a more official statement to the police and animal control officers. They told him that since it was a criminal matter – apparently the attacking dogs’ owners had trained them to go after other animals – the carcass would need to be transferred to the city for an autopsy.   
  
  
Finally left alone, Neal returned to the small operating room and wrapped up the poor beast, transferring her to a cold storage unit. By rote, he cleaned the room and the harsh odor of the disinfectant quickly overwhelmed the metallic tang of blood. Surgical tools were dumped in the autoclave, disposables were disposed of, and in a matter of minutes the room was mostly restored to its prior pristine condition. He’d have his assistant, Mike, clean it more thoroughly. He was exhausted and heartsick. Unable to do another thing, Neal just sank to the cold, tiled floor.  
  
Neal might have sat there all night, but the ringing phone at the front desk cut through his peace like a knife. He wanted to ignore the noise, but thought better of it and levered himself off the floor to go answer it. It could be the police, following up. It could be another emergency. It could be something important.  
  
It was Peter.  
  
The answering machine clicked on just as Neal made it to the reception desk.  
  
 _"Neal – it’s me, Peter. Look, I’m not tracking you down or stalking you or anything, but Satch and I are standing in front of your office and the lights are on. We – El and I – were kind of concerned when you didn’t show tonight and we couldn’t reach you …"_ Peter trailed off and Neal could hear the worry and the embarrassment. _"Look, if you can, let us know you’re okay? I don’t want to barge in, but I’m a little worried. I needed to take Satch for a walk and we sort of ending up taking our usual route … "_  
  
 _Shit. Dinner._ He hadn’t given a thought to Peter and Elizabeth or their dinner date for hours, even after the emergency ended.   
  
Peter’s voice echoed through the waiting room as Neal, moving like an old man, made his way to the front door and opened it.  
  
Peter was standing there, cellphone in one hand, Satchmo’s leash in the other. The Lab barked and wagged his tail and Peter smiled in relief, at least until he took in Neal’s bloodied surgical scrubs.  
  
"What happened? Is everything all right?"  
  
"I’m sorry, there was an emergency."  
  
They spoke over each other, and Neal gestured for Peter to come in. Peter didn’t say anything and Neal was grateful. He gestured at his blood-soaked surgical scrubs. "Just give me a few minutes, I need to change – get out of this."  
  
Peter nodded, eyes filled with compassion and understanding. "Sure – no problem. We’ll wait for you."   
  
Neal waved a hand towards to chairs, not waiting to see if Peter took a seat, and headed back to the examination rooms. Before starting surgery, Neal had taken just a few seconds to strip and put on a sterile gown and as he ripped that gown off, he saw that his whole torso was stained with blood.  
  
It took all his strength not to retch into the sink, and he was able to wash up. Neal told himself that he should be tougher than this, but it was hard to get over the senselessness of it.  
  
Dressed and somewhat in control of his emotions, Neal rejoined Peter in the waiting room. Before Peter could speak, Neal raised a hand, cutting him off. "I’m sorry I spoiled our plans tonight." He knew, objectively, that Peter wasn’t angry and he appreciated that the man was even worried that he would seem stalkerish and controlling, but the emotional toll of his failure brought back too many old insecurities.  
  
"It’s okay." Peter – who was far too perceptive – just let go of Satchmo’s lead and the dog ran to him. And like his master, Satch picked up on Neal’s distress and didn’t jump or bark or try to get him to play, like he usually did. He just sat at Neal’s feet, his tail swishing against the floor, his eyes bright and his nose cold as he shoved it under Neal’s hand.  
  
Without thinking, Neal dropped to his knees and hugged Peter’s dog, reveling in the joyful life he had in his arms. Satch whimpered and licked at his face until Neal finally let go. As he stood up, he grabbed the leash and handed it back to Peter. "Hold on, I need to leave some notes."  
  
Mike would be in tomorrow to feed and take care of the handful of animals who were boarded or staying for observation and to make sure that the Demon Creature, who thankfully slept through the evening’s trauma, had fresh water and food. Neal left him a note about giving the operating room a more extensive cleaning and to contact him if there were any messages from the police or animal control.  
  
He shut off the lights and waited for Peter and Satchmo to go outside before locking up. Days like today made him regret so many things.

  


  
  
Elizabeth had set a pot of water on the stove and turned on the burner. She figured that Peter would be back with the dog in about twenty minutes, just enough time for the water to come to a boil and the spaghetti to cook. She was making it easy on herself, nothing more complicated than a box of pasta and some decent sauce from a jar rounded out with a couple of meatballs she pulled out of the freezer. One of the benefits of working with caterers – they were always pushing good food on her, and her freezer was filled to the brim with their gourmet offerings.   
  
She’d just opened a bottle of Bordeaux to let it breathe when the phone rang. It was Peter and she got a little worried. "Hon? Everything all right?"  
  
 _"Everything’s fine, nothing to worry about."_  
  
There was something in her husband’s voice that made her doubt that. "Really?"  
  
 _"Okay – not really. Satch and I decided to take a walk over to Neal’s office."_  
  
El was almost afraid to hear where this was going. "And?"  
  
 _"He had an emergency – I don’t know the details – but it doesn’t seem like it went well. Would you mind if I had him come back to our place? He looks like he could use a little TLC."_  
  
That was her husband, the tough-as-nails FBI agent with the heart of mush. "You didn’t have to ask, hon. We were going to have dinner with Neal tonight anyway."  
  
 _"But you were angry that he stood us up."_  
  
"Apparently he had a good reason." She had been angry at Neal, and then angry at herself for being angry. Their relationship with the man was complicated and far more fraught than she ever expected. Or wanted, if she had to admit to herself. And still, she couldn’t help but worry about Neal, she couldn’t stop wanting to make him part of their lives. "Bring him home and don’t let him argue with you about it. We’ll feed him, ply him with wine, and if he needs it, he can take the spare bedroom."  
  
 _"I’ll do my best."_  
  
"You always do." El knew that Peter wouldn’t force Neal to come in, that wasn’t his way. Especially given Neal’s history. She, on the other hand, didn’t have such a soft heart.   
  
_"We should be home in about ten minutes, okay?"_  
  
"Can’t wait." El stared at the phone for a moment after Peter disconnected. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe that Neal had an emergency that kept him from their date, or that he couldn’t call. It was just, well, after the snub he’d given her, pretending to have a pre-existing relationship with that little bald guy, she found herself rethinking her desire to include him in the life she had with Peter.  
  
She put the phone down, put away those thoughts and put the pasta into the boiling water. She added another few meatballs to the dish, put that into the microwave, checked that the sauce wasn’t burning, added another place setting on the dining table and thought about waiting for them out on the front porch. If Peter couldn’t get Neal to come in, maybe she could guilt him into it.  
  
No, that was bad idea.   
  
She was slightly ashamed at herself. One moment, she was questioning whether she really wanted to have Neal Caffrey in her life and ultimately her bed, and the next, she was thinking about coercing him into dinner. Her inconsistency troubled her.  
  
El checked the pot, turned it onto a low simmer, poured herself a glass of wine, and headed outside. Just to enjoy the October evening like thousands of other Brooklynites. Relaxing on one’s front stoop with a glass of wine, watching the moon rise, listening to the leaves rustle and the birds give one of their last evening performances before they left for warmer climes.   
  
There was nothing wrong with that, was there?  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Moz let himself into Neal’s brownstone. He’d been on the lecture circuit for the better part of a month – Bern, Helsinki, Oxford, Cambridge, then back to Bern. He hated being away from Neal for so long, even though he’d left his friend for longer periods of time, and in much more dire circumstances.   
  
It seemed like Neal was on the precipice of something good, but he was too scared to take the leap. Not that Mozzie blamed Neal for his caution. After what Keller had did to him, he was right to be wary, especially since Peter Burke was a Suit. Not that he’d ever equate Peter Burke with Matthew Keller. That son of a bitch had been a bad Suit and even now, Moz regretted letting him live.  
  
Last summer, when Neal first told him about the Burkes, he had called on the assistance of a few old friends. Well, one old friend and ever-current amour, Sallie. Their paths had crossed and re-crossed many times over the decades. He’d supplied her with the necessary chemicals to thoroughly destroy whatever data storage unit needed to be destroyed; she’d helped him get access to certain restricted databases. They screwed each other raw whenever they got the chance.   
  
Sallie had been the one who got him the data he needed to bring down Keller. Not only had she hacked into the FBI databases, She had also created a back door into Keller’s own computers and cell phones and kept a trace on him via the network of traffic and private security cameras around the city. When Moz had asked her to get some data on Neal’s potential lovers, she hadn’t hesitated.  
  
It hadn’t taken much to get him the information he needed about Peter Burke, who was nothing like Matthew Keller. Burke was the definition of a decent man, a mensch as some of his friends might say. His FBI jacket bore a dozen citations for bravery, including letters of commendation from the Director himself. He ran a good ship, was known throughout the Bureau as much for his extremely high closure and conviction rate as for his reputation as a fair boss and an excellent mentor.   
  
Other than his tendency to overrun the department budget for operations expenses, only red flag Moz could find was an unexplained transfer, early in his career. He had moved from Organized Crime to White Collar, but there was no promotion in rank or adjustment to his pay grade. Trying to read between the lines, Moz could only suspect that Burke might have pissed off a superior and needed to get out of an unpleasant situation. Agents of his caliber didn’t make lateral transfers, they got promoted.   
  
At the time, Moz toyed with the idea of asking Sallie to dig deeper, to correlate operations for that organized crime unit at the time of Burke’s transfer. She warned him that a more thorough search might trigger a few alarms. Moz wasn’t afraid of the Suits, but he decided to let it go. The transfer was so long ago that it was probably irrelevant to the man he was now.  
  
Not that any of the information Sallie gave him mattered, at least as far as giving Neal some peace of mind, since he never even looked at the fruits of her labors. For months, Neal had held the Burkes at bay, but eventually decided to trust them. He eventually told them the whole sickening story, or at least the parts that he knew about.  
  
The irony was that that slight shadow on Burke’s record was a most startling and disturbing coincidence. Matthew Keller was a street agent and Peter Burke had been his handler for a while. Neal had told him that Peter had caught Keller abusing an underage prostitute and reported it, only to see that report buried and his rising career in Organized Crime interrupted by a lateral transfer to White Collar.  
  
Moz didn’t like coincidences. Albert Einstein might have said that they were God’s way of staying anonymous, but Moz was an atheist and a scientist and coincidences were problems that lacked a definite causal connection.  
  
The month before he left for Europe, Moz had watched the Burkes woo Neal – they were gentle and patient. Well, Peter was. That firecracker of a wife – the woman who so thoroughly tore Neal to shreds in the liquor store – seemed more wary than patient. Moz wondered if she was still angry with his friend.   
  
Neal’s house was quiet. It had the empty feeling a place can get at the end of a long day – not like it was abandoned, but that it was waiting too long. The pile of mail in the entryway was small – nothing more than what had been delivered today. Moz figured – actually hoped – that Neal was out with the Burkes. Having dinner, maybe a movie, maybe something more.   
  
Neal’s absence was all the better for him. He could unpack, reacclimate himself to the time zone and raid Neal’s wine collection.   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
"You have no idea how sorry I am about tonight."  
  
Peter took his arm and turned so they were facing each other. "Neal, stop apologizing."  
  
Neal heard Peter’s works, but he couldn’t stop himself. "I was all set to leave. I’d been looking forward to our dinner all week."   
  
"It’s all right. These things happen."  
  
"I know – but I should have …"  
  
Peter cut him off. "You’re a medical professional, right?"  
  
Neal nodded.  
  
"You provide emergency services?"  
  
"Yes, but…"  
  
"You had an emergency. There was no one there to assist you. You had no time. Your patient was your first priority. There is nothing to be sorry about. We’re not upset, we’re not angry. We were worried, but that’s all."  
  
He swallowed and kept his eyes on the sidewalk. He tried to take Peter’s words at face value, but it was so damn hard. Neal knew he was shaky and overwrought and having a hard time distinguishing tonight’s failure from all the times that Matthew had punished him.  
  
"Neal."  
  
He kept looking at the sidewalk.  
  
"Neal – look at me."  
  
It was an effort, but he lifted his head. There was something in Peter’s tone that made him want to obey. Not out of fear, but from respect. He’d felt this way before, and it had terrified him. Peter’s gaze, however, was anything but stern and demanding. He looked like he was about to cry, too.  
  
He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay, okay. It’s okay. I’m okay." Actually, he was a mess, but suddenly less of a mess and a bit more in control of himself.  
  
Peter smiled at him. "Good. Now, I’ve called El and she’s added a place for you at the table. Probably just going to be something simple, is that all right?"  
  
"You haven’t eaten yet?" And with that, his anxiety soared again. "Sorry."  
  
Peter didn’t answer, he just continued to look at him with one eyebrow raised and a touch of exasperation in the twist of his lips.  
  
"Was Elizabeth very angry when I didn’t show up?"  
  
"No, absolutely not. She was just worried."  
  
Neal could sense that there was something more to it than that. He knew he still had a ways to go to get completely back into her good graces. She might have been willing to forgive him, but unlike Peter, there was still a lot of reserve in her manner and she seemed more inclined to let her husband push forward with their relationship.  
  
"You’re joining us for dinner, right?" Peter was asking him, but he clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer.  
  
Neal shrugged. "If you want."  
  
"I want. We want."  
  
"Okay, then I want to, too."  
  
Peter let go of his arm, which left him chilled. Not for the first time, Neal had noticed that Peter was like a furnace and there was a small, unafraid part of him that wondered just how delicious it would be to wake up next to him on a frigid winter morning.   
  
Satchmo barked at both of them and Peter laughed. "Someone is telling us we need to get a move on."  
  
Neal reached out and scratched the dog’s head. He was rewarded first with a swipe of a tongue, then an armful of warm yellow fur as Satch tried to reach his face.  
  
"Down, boy." Peter tugged at the leash, pulling the dog back and down to the ground, making him sit. Satchmo sat, but barked at them again. "Sorry – he’d got a few bad habits. Jumping onto people he likes is one of them. Wish I could get him to stop."  
  
"Actually, you’re handling it right." They started walking again. "You’re stopping the behavior as it occurs and you show him that you’re the head of his ‘pack’. You don’t want to break his spirit."  
  
Peter gave him a sharp look. "No, that’s the last thing I want to do."  
  
They soon reached the Burkes’ house, and Satchmo started barking again. With good reason, his other owner was sitting on the top step, waiting for them, wrapped in a bulky sweater and a wine glass in her hand.  
  
Elizabeth smiled down at them. "I was just about to go in, my butt was getting cold." She opened the front door and Peter let go of Satchmo’s leash as the dog ran up the stairs and inside. Neal watched the other man follow his dog, and he seemed to be moving a little stiffer than usual.   
  
At the top of the steps, Peter turned and gestured, "Come on, dinner smells like it’s ready."  
  
Neal didn’t move. He hated being so indecisive, so fragile. So fucking _weak_.  
  
Elizabeth came down the steps and held out a hand. "Come on, it’s Date Night. Let’s have our date."   
  
The cold place in him warmed a fraction, then another fraction. He took her hand and let her lead him into the house.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
Peter kept an eye on Neal through the meal. He reminded him of a dog that used to haunt the neighborhood where he grew up.   
  
The poor thing had no tags, it was skin and bones, and ran as soon as he got close. His parents, loving but practical, told him not to feed it, he’d only be sorry when the dog eventually ran off for good.   
  
But Peter hadn’t listened and every morning he’d put out a bowl with a small amount of the dog food he bought with his allowance. He was eight years old and he got fifty cents a week for doing chores. His mother and father had always made it clear that he could spend his money anyway he wanted, but that money had to last him a week. The candy store didn’t tempt him and he’d been saving for a new baseball glove, but feeding that dog seemed more important. He took three dollars out of his piggy bank and went with his mom to the A&P, and bought a twenty-pound bag of Purina Dog Chow.  
  
He’d put out the bowl and sit on the back steps, waiting for the dog to approach. Most mornings, his mom would have to drag him away and push him onto the school bus. But the food was always gone when he got home. He did the same thing in the evenings, doing his spelling and math homework and watching for the poor mutt.   
  
Eight year-old Peter was patient, and his patience paid off. It took three months of careful coaxing, but before just the cold weather set in, the dog was eating from the bowl under Peter’s feet. Another few weeks, and he was letting Peter pet him.  
  
By Thanksgiving, the dog had his own little house in the backyard (which Peter had helped his dad to build), a bright red leather collar with two tags, one telling the world that he was Maximilian Burke and belonged to Peter Burke, and the other announcing that he had been inoculated against rabies. By Christmas, Maximilian Burke (or simply, Max B), was sleeping at the foot of Peter’s bed, his head resting on the brand new baseball glove Santa had left for him.  
  
The forty-eight year-old Peter felt pretty much the same as his eight year old self. He knew that the prize would be worth the wait, and he’d wait as long as he had to.  
  
"More wine?" Elizabeth interrupted his musings.  
  
Peter shook his head. "I’m a lightweight these days. Another glass and I’ll probably pass out before finishing the dishes."  
  
"Can’t have that." El offered to refill Neal’s glass.  
  
"Sure – if anything, I’m the opposite of a lightweight. And I could use it, after tonight."  
  
Peter had made a point not to ask Neal what had happened, and after fifteen years of marriage, Elizabeth picked up his signals and hadn’t asked either – least until now. She split the remainder of the bottle between Neal’s glass and hers, and simply asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal took a sip of wine. It was a decent enough Bordeaux, although Mozzie probably would have held his nose before swallowing it. "I was just about to turn off the lights and leave when someone started banging on the door …"  
  
Slowly, taking deliberate care to avoiding unnecessarily gruesome details, he told the Burkes what happened. By the time he’d finished, the three of them were crying. Neal didn’t remember moving from the dining table to couch, but he could remember being surrounded by heat and whispered words of compassion.  
  
At some point, half of the heat – the Elizabeth-shaped half – was replaced by a more furry sort of warmth as Elizabeth got up. Satchmo had jumped onto the couch and curled up against his back. Neal rested his aching head on Peter’s shoulder, content in the simple physical closeness. As pillows went, it certainly wasn’t soft, but the steady beat of a pulse under his ear and Peter’s clean, masculine scent chased away the lingering horrors. He felt himself drifting and for the first time in way too many years, he just let himself go, without a care for his physical safety.  
  
The room wasn’t completely dark when he opened his eyes. The reading lamp next to an easy chair was on, casting a soft light on the man sitting in that chair. There was a book opened on his lap, and a pair of half-glasses perched on the end of his nose and Neal thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. He moved and the weight on his legs – Satchmo, of course – shifted and the tags on his collar jingled.  
  
Peter looked up and smiled. "You okay?"  
  
"Sorry – I guess I just …" Neal sat up and instantly regretted it. His head was pounding.  
  
"Here." Peter picked up something – a bottle of water – and opened it before handing it over. "I figured you might need this." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small bottle. "And these."  
  
Neal took the water and the Advil with gratitude. "I’m sorry …"  
  
"Caffrey, enough with the apologies."  
  
Neal was about to say "I’m sorry" again but stopped himself. "What time is it?"  
  
Peter checked his watch. "It’s a little after two. You’ve been asleep for about four hours."  
  
Neal stood up and quickly sat back down. "Damn, I haven’t been this hung over in a long time." There had been nights – too many nights – after Moz had set him free, that he drank enough to pass out, enough to forget for a night, just what he had become. He didn’t want that anymore.  
  
Peter looked at him over the rim of his glasses, and despite his hangover, Neal felt a spark of arousal. Peter’s next words didn’t do a damn thing for his peace of mind or the state of his body.  
  
"I don’t want you to even suggest heading home. I know that you don’t live that far away, but El and I would be a lot happier if you stayed in the guest room tonight."  
  
Truthfully, it wasn’t just the words, but the stern but caring way they were delivered that sent another frisson of desire through him.   
  
"Come on." Peter stood and held a hand out. The dizziness wasn’t that bad this time but as Peter led him over to the stairs, Neal clung to him; not really out of necessity. Unfortunately, Peter let go once Neal gripped the bannister. "You don’t want me helping you up the stairs, unless you’d enjoy ending up in a pile at the bottom."  
  
Guilt replaced desire. He’d honestly forgotten that Peter had been shot and almost killed, that until a few months ago, he walked with a cane. "Sorry." And then, "Sorry about the ‘sorry’."  
  
Peter laughed, and he was standing so close behind him that Neal could feel the warmth of his breath on his ear. "Don’t worry about it."  
  
Neal hauled himself up the stairs and Peter pointed him towards the guest bedroom. "Do you want a pair of sweats to sleep in?"  
  
He answered without a second thought. "Nah, I can manage for the night."   
  
"I’ll leave towels for you in the bathroom, and don’t be in a rush to get up. El has a thing – some baby shower in Great Neck – and she’ll probably be up and gone before sunrise, but I plan on sleeping in."   
  
Neal hadn’t gotten as far as the morning. His immediate plans consisted of getting undressed, face-planting himself on what he hoped would be comfortable bed, and not moving until his bladder dictated otherwise. "Sounds good to me." He looked into the guest room he was about to occupy. The bed looked exceedingly comfortable. And almost startlingly large. "I’d wish you good night, but it’s well into morning."  
  
Peter laughed again, and to Neal’s shock, he leaned over and pressed a brief kiss against his lips. He issued one last command, "Get some rest," before disappearing into the other bedroom.   
  
Neal stood there, confounded.   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
As he’d told Neal, Elizabeth had gotten up a little before dawn – about seven AM this time of year – and been out before Peter could do anything more than hmm his pleasure at her goodbye kiss.   
  
It was close to nine by time he opened his eyes again. The house was quiet, but there was something different about it, too. Peter remembered and smiled. There was another human heart beating underneath the roof.   
  
Neal.  
  
Energized, Peter got out of bed and stretched. And winced as the muscles in his leg and his chest pulled against the mass of scar tissue. He limped his way across the room and into the hall and wondered if he’d ever stop feeling like an old man the first thing in the morning.   
  
Satchmo was sleeping outside the closed door of the guest bedroom and he lifted his head and thumped his tail against the floor at the sight of his master. Since El had him out and fed him, Satch seemed content to stay put and Peter had to smile. He wished that the dog was this sedentary after the sun had set. It was pretty damn inconvenient to have a dog that was a night owl.  
  
Peter took care of his morning business and swapped the ratty old gym shorts he slept in for a slightly less ragged pair he wore for exercising. A few years after he and El bought this house, they had the third floor completely gutted, converting the three tiny bedrooms into a single space that served as his office and the repository for their mostly unused exercise equipment. Over the years, they’d joked that the Nautilus machine saw more duty as a place to hang off-season clothes and the treadmill did better service as a bookcase.  
  
But once he started physical therapy, both machines were put back into daily use. He desperately needed to rebuild strength and stamina in his legs if he was ever going to be certified for field work.  
  
Until the shooting, Peter had been mostly a jogger, but he preferred to hit the pavement a few mornings a week instead of using the treadmill. Friends told him that he wasting his time doing that when he could multitask and spend an hour catching up on world affairs, the local news, or even the television shows he’d missed the night before. But Peter multitasked enough in other areas of his life. He had liked the feeling of fresh air, the changing scenery, learning and relearning the neighborhood through the seasons.  
  
But jogging like that was still on the list of prohibited activities. He could do an hour at a reasonable walking clip on the treadmill, wearing the right shoes, in a perfectly controlled environment where he’d have no chance of tripping and injuring himself. The treadmill was about stamina. Using the Nautilus was about building up strength, and that was where he was headed this morning.  
  
He did his stretches first, because the one time he hadn’t, he’d been in agony for days, set the machine to the proper weight load, and started working out. He didn’t want music or an audiobook or the radio to distract him, preferring to give the process his full attention.  
  
But this morning, as much as he tried, he found himself distracted by the problem still asleep in the guest bedroom.  
  
 _Neal Caffrey. Neal Caffrey. Neal Caffrey._  
  
The name echoed in syncopation with the gentle clack of the weights as they rose and fell. The man had seemed so wrecked last night, so shattered, and it had taken all Peter’s willpower not to just take charge and whisk him out of his office. But his patience had been rewarded, somewhat, when Neal opened up and told them what happened. Peter couldn’t help but grieve with him over that poor dog – such a terrible and senseless waste.  
  
In the cool morning light, Peter supposed that this was progress. Neal trusted them enough to share, to let himself be comforted. Watching Neal sleep on the couch last night had further stirred his deeply protective instincts, the ones that had first blossomed when Neal told them what he’d gone through with Keller and the years of abuse he’d suffered. For the last two months, Peter had tried to keep them suppressed. He was too afraid that he’d come across as controlling, stifling, over-protective. But watching Neal, thinking about Neal’s behavior throughout the evening, he felt as if he’d learned something important about him.  
  
Neal was submissive; for him obedience was instinctive.  
  
Back when he and El first started exploring polyamory, they visited a couple of clubs. They weren’t so much looking for partners, but trying to understand their own sexuality. Those visits had only confirmed what Peter suspected about himself. That he was pretty damn vanilla in terms of kink, but when it came to sex he was unremittingly dominant, preferring to take charge and remain in control.   
  
Actually, that was true with almost everything.   
  
_Almost_ was the operative word there, since he worked in an environment that required observance of a strict command structure. But the FBI suited him, as it was a meritocracy as much as a bureaucracy – for the most part recognizing and rewarding excellence – and his promotions over the years had provided a berth that suited him perfectly.   
  
That _almost_ was also qualified within these four walls, too. Elizabeth was just as dominant as he was. He didn’t know if that meant they were extremely compatible, since opposites were supposed to attract. It could be that he didn’t need to exert his will with his wife, since she worked in tandem with him. Maybe that was why they gravitated towards polyamory, seeking partners that were not necessarily submissive, but complemented both of their personalities.  
  
Which brought Peter’s thoughts back to Neal. His realization troubled him. It seemed like a situation that could so easily be abused.  
  
Over the past few months, Peter had been careful never to order Neal to do anything. Where he would, with anyone else, make a casual demand, with Neal, everything was couched in the most careful of requests. Far too cognizant of Neal’s history, he had toned down his natural inclination to command.  
  
That flew out the window last night. Elizabeth insisted that Neal come in for dinner. He all but issued an order for Neal to stay the night, and the man didn’t blink, didn’t make the slightest effort to resist, even though his house was less than a five minute walk away. That moment, when Neal let him lead him to the staircase, almost frightened Peter. It would be so easy to make Neal into something that existed as an extension of his will.  
  
Peter stopped in the middle of a rep and almost laughed. He didn’t want Neal as anything but what he was. Smart, sensitive, charming, and a man with a tremendous amount of strength and free will. He didn’t want a slave, he didn’t want a submissive. He knew people who enjoyed that lifestyle, he knew how difficult it was for both parties in the relationship, but that wasn’t his scene. It wasn’t El’s either.  
  
What really scared Peter was the thought that he could do that to Neal without him realizing it, that it would be simple to ease Neal into that life. The concept nauseated him – stealing another human being’s free will without his consent. He would be no better than the bastard that almost destroyed him.   
  
Or maybe worse.  
  
He finished the set and paused for a breather. His leg ached, a lot more today than it had yesterday. He rubbed at the scar, distracted from the problem that was Neal Caffrey. He hated to touch the scar tissue. It repulsed him – the unnatural smoothness, the ropy indentations where he was cut so many times. All of these sensations reminded him that he wasn’t the man he used to be and he’d never be that man again.  
  
But that wasn’t an excuse to give up. He started the next set of reps, not thinking about Neal Caffrey, not thinking about everything he lost. Peter instead concentrated on the fact that he was alive, he had both of his legs and most days, he could walk completely unaided.  
  
He didn’t think about the possibility that he’d never be cleared for field duty and would spend the rest of his career riding a desk.  
  
No, he definitely didn’t think about that, because that thought was unbearable.   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal woke slowly. The bed was unfamiliar, so was the light. He laid there for a moment, remembering the details.  
  
The sadness of yesterday’s loss was muted, distant. That was okay. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel anything, but the night’s sleep did a lot to restore his common sense and training. That poor Setter had been too injured to save, and had she not been so close to term, he probably wouldn’t have tried to save her litter.  
  
Yes, it still hurt, but it wasn’t raw and the feelings of failure and futility didn’t come flooding back.  
  
Neal got out of bed and checked the time. It was well after nine and time to get up. Last night, he’d briefly regretted declining Peter’s offer of sleepwear, but then he realized that the man and his wife were actively courting him and they probably had no issues about him climbing naked between the sheets in their guest bedroom.  
  
Under any other circumstance, he would have slept in his boxer-briefs – and in fact had planned to, except that the blood that soaked through the surgical gown and scrubs had also stained his underwear. There was no way he was going to sleep in those. And there was no way he was going to put them back on this morning.  
  
Which meant going commando; unless he could borrow a pair from Peter. That seemed way too intimate, but then, so was wearing borrowed sweat pants.   
  
Standing naked in the Burkes’ guest bedroom wasn’t going to solve anything. Neal put on his pants, wadded up the briefs and shoved them in his pocket.   
  
Opening the bedroom door, he found Satchmo keeping guard. The dog sat up but otherwise made no attempt to move.  
  
Neal grinned. "Is there a toll I have to pay?" The Lab looked up and, in the way that only canines could, he smiled at him. Neal scratched the dog’s head and was rewarded with a lick across his palm, but he still didn’t move.  
  
More amused than exasperated, Neal asked, "Well?"  
  
The dog sighed and gave him a look that Neal could only interpret as "if I have to" before getting to his feet and trotting downstairs.  
  
As Peter had promised last night, Neal found a pile of towels in the bathroom. He doffed his pants and took a very brief but very hot shower, washing away the last of yesterday’s distress.  
  
Dried and dressed, Neal went in search of his host. There was a strange, rhythmic clanking sound coming from the third floor and he followed the noise.   
  
Like the house he was renting, the third floor had been gutted and opened up. Ellen had made hers into the master suite, adding a much-needed second bathroom. The Burkes didn’t go for such an extensive renovation. The space was open, but minimally furnished. A desk with computer equipment, a couch that looked almost as old as he was, a bunch of plastic storage bins, and some exercise equipment. The last explained the noise. Peter was hard at work on a weight machine.  
  
Neal watched and enjoyed the watching. Peter was shirtless, his skin glowing with sweat. Even though he was working his legs, his whole body was involved. Muscles bunched in his abdomen as he held the position, his biceps flexed slightly against the strain. Neal had always been more of a swimmer and runner than a gym rat, but he could appreciate the effort that Peter was putting into his workout.  
  
Neal must have made a sound – maybe a moan of disappointment – when Peter finally stopped, because he turned to him. And whatever aesthetic pleasure he’d been taking from Peter’s efforts turned to something else. Shock mostly. Peter without his shirt and in the bright morning that hid nothing, was …  
  
Bullet-ridden.  
  
Neal knew that Peter had been shot, almost from the moment they met. Peter had even told him that someone had shot him six times, point blank, and that it was a miracle of science that he survived. But seeing those scars puckering the smooth skin – one way too close to Peter’s heart – brought home just how close to dying this man had been.  
  
"If you think these are disgusting, you might want to avert your eyes."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I know they’re pretty ugly." Peter shrugged and with deliberate carelessness, draped a towel over his shoulders, hiding the scars. "The ones on my leg are a lot uglier."   
  
Peter walked – or more precisely, limped – towards him, and was trying to leave the room. Neal wasn’t letting him pass. "I don’t think they are ugly. They don’t disgust me. Not at all."  
  
Peter didn’t believe him. "No? That was an interesting expression on your face."  
  
"Then you need better reading glasses, because you’ve misread my mind."  
  
"Oh?"   
  
Neal could see that Peter’s challenging expression was hiding a world of hurt. "I was horrified at the visible evidence of how close you came to dying. Of your life ending before I met you." That hadn’t exactly been his thought a few moments ago, but now it was so profoundly disturbing that Neal almost became grief stricken. "Our paths would never have crossed."  
  
Peter seemed to accept his words, his lips quirking up in a slight smile. "Yeah – and of all the things my dying would have caused, that would have been the most tragic …"  
  
Neal cut him off. "Don’t joke. That’s not funny."  
  
Peter’s eyes darkened with emotion. "I wasn’t joking, Caffrey."  
  
Someday, Neal was going to have to tell Peter just what it did to him when he called him that. But for now, he settled for being just a trifle less brave. Neal reached out and shifted the towel off of Peter’s shoulders. It dropped to the floor and his fingers traced the scars: the two shallow indentations on Peter’s chest, then the deeper one on his left shoulder, finally drifting across his sternum to the deep scoring on his right bicep. "You never told me how you were shot, what happened."  
  
Peter shook his head. "No – I didn’t."  
  
"If you don’t want to tell me…"  
  
"No – it’s just that I don’t – " Peter cut himself off. "I, well – " He cut himself off again and shook his head in frustration. "Let me take a shower and we’ll talk over breakfast, okay?"  
  
"Okay. But before you go, just one thing." Neal stepped closer, the closest he’d been to a near-naked man in more years than he’d cared to contemplate. "So you don’t ever think that your scars disgust me." Neal pressed his lips against each of the scars in turn; his lips and tongue savoring the salty dew on Peter’s flesh. "And this is something I’ve wanted to do since the moment we met." Neal kissed Peter again, this time at the base of his throat, on the mole that graced his suprasternal notch.  
  
Through the first four kisses, Peter hadn’t moved, hadn’t seemed to breathe, but with this kiss – which was one of pure desire – he groaned and wrapped his arms around him. Neal pressed another kiss onto Peter’s flesh, just below the jawline, and then another at the corner of his mouth. He might have concluded this voyage of exploration at a natural destination, but Peter – who was obviously aroused – pulled back and growled. "Don’t start something we can’t finish now."  
  
Neal shook his head. " _Can’t_ finish?"  
  
Peter cupped his cheek, his thumb sweeping across his lips. "Not yet. El and I – we have a pact. When we start a new relationship, we have a moment of full disclosure before we take this step."  
  
"Ah – that is wise." The words seemed a little trite and off-hand, but Neal could see the wisdom in it. Hadn’t Peter defined polyamory as "consensual non-monogamy"?  
  
"It is – and even though El wants you, too, I don’t want her to feel like we’ve taken any steps without her."   
  
"No, of course not." Neal was well aware of how fragile his standing was with Elizabeth Burke. "So – until we, or you, talk with Elizabeth – kissing only?"  
  
At that, Peter kissed his laughter into him. "Caffrey – you’re going to be the death of me, you know that?"  
  
"God forbid!" Neal didn’t even want to think of that, even in jest.  
  
"Now, do me a favor and go downstairs and let the dog out. I’ll shower, we’ll have breakfast, and I’ll give you the whole story, if you want to hear it."  
  
"Only if you want to tell me." Neal could tell that this was a difficult topic for Peter.  
  
"Yeah, I do."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter was glad that Neal walked down the stairs ahead of him. He was moving slower than his usual glacial pace this morning. The scar tissue was pulling and the damaged tendons were protesting, and for some reason, his knee, which had been spared damage from the bullet and the subsequent surgeries, was popping every time he flexed it. He needed to keep a firm grip on the railing to avoid pitching forward.  
  
Neal was on the ground floor and heading towards the back of the house before Peter made it to the second floor landing.   
  
There had been a moment there, when Neal had kissed him, when his body reacted like he was sixteen and copping a feel of Donna Corcoran’s braless tit underneath the bleachers. He got hard as a rock, instantly. But that arousal didn’t survive the journey down a single flight of stairs.  
  
Peter made it to the bathroom, it was still warm and the mirror partially steamed over from Neal’s own shower. The towel he had left for Neal was folded neatly on top of the hamper. That courteous touch pleased Peter immeasurably. They’d rarely had partners who were slobs, but they also expected – no, required – a certain amount of respect.   
  
The hot water felt good on his aching body, good enough that when Peter started replaying the scene with Neal in his head, his cock responded like it had before. Under the pounding of the shower spray, Peter took himself in hand. Until a few months ago, physical arousal had been impossible to achieve, and even now, seemed like such a miracle that he’d been reluctant to waste it on himself.  
  
But acting on this desire – with the man downstairs – had to be postponed, even if just for the length of the day. And was this really wasting it? He took himself in hand, relishing the weighty, meaty feel of his cock, how it throbbing with life.  
  
Under the hot water, he started stroking. Peter let his mind drift back to that scene, giving free rein to his imagination. In his fantasy, he didn’t step back, he didn’t tell Neal they had to stop. No, in his fantasy, he gently pushed Neal to the floor and threaded his fingers through the man’s hair, pulling his face to his groin. In his fantasy, Neal mouthed his cock through the sweaty gym shorts, rubbing his cheek against his cloth-covered hardness, before using his teeth to pull the fabric down.  
  
In his fantasy, Neal swallowed him whole and held him in his throat for far longer than anyone could, before letting his cock slide back over his tongue. But Neal didn’t let go all the way, capturing the bulbous head, humming his pleasure before finally releasing it.   
  
Peter fucked his fist, imagining how he would rub his cock all over Neal’s face. His pleasure began to peak and then Peter did something he never thought of doing to himself before. He let go of his balls and touched the mole at the base of his throat, remembering the feel of Neal’s lips there. The light brush of his fingers against that odd bit of flesh was like a bolt of electricity, and he came so hard that the edges of his vision whited out and he almost fell into the wall.  
  
The hot water finally started to run out and Peter ended his shower. 

 

  
  


  
  
Neal might have actually floated down the stairs. He certainly had no memory of his feet touching the steps. Now, standing in a pool of sunlight in the Burke’s backyard, waiting for the dog to finish his business, Neal felt a little unreal, a little dazed.  
  
What he just did to Peter …  
  
He kissed him. He took that first step, without even thinking about the need for an escape route. It was like last night, when he fell asleep on the couch, knowing that he was safe.  
  
This absence of fear was so freeing. In that instant, Neal understood that it wasn’t because he knew that Matthew Keller was dead and couldn’t hurt him or those he loved. No, this freedom came from knowing that he could absolutely trust Peter Burke.   
  
Neal stood there, ignoring the dog that ran around the yard, chasing the squirrels and barking like mad. He stood there and let that revelation sink in.  
  
This was different from trusting Peter and Elizabeth with his past, taking the step to tell them what an idiot he’d been. The risk in that telling had been their disgust. The risk here …   
  
Intellectually, he knew that Peter would never harm him. But intellect couldn’t overcome the primal instinct for safety and survival.  
  
In the eight years since Mozzie had gotten him free of Matthew Keller, he hadn’t lived like a monk. There hadn’t been a lot of people in his life, but he hadn’t been celibate, either.   
  
He had rules, though. Important, unbreakable rules. Even though it wasn’t his preference when he was with a guy, he never bottomed. For him, that was an act of trust and he simply didn’t have the capacity to trust anyone not to hurt him the way Matthew had. He never took anyone home with him. No one ever knew where he lived. He didn’t discuss his business beyond the most basic facts. Most of the time, and all the time if he was with a man, they went to a hotel. He didn’t mind paying, for the simple reason that when he checked in, he always tipped the staff to do a room check if they didn’t see him leave.  
  
Of course, these rules meant that he never had long term relationships. Actually, the rules really meant that he never had second dates. Until he’d made up his mind about coming back to New York, Neal hadn’t really thought he minded.   
  
Satchmo got bored with the squirrels and shoved his cold, wet nose into his palm, distracting Neal from his thoughts. "Okay, boy – let’s go in." The dog barked in agreement and all but tripped him up to get to the back door.  
  
Neal could hear the shower running upstairs and wondered what Peter would do if he decided to invade his privacy. Would he hold to his pact with Elizabeth if Neal joined him in the shower, fell to his knees and started sucking his cock? Probably not, but he’d probably be angry. And that didn’t frighten him at all.  
  
Not that he’d act on this little fantasy. He really knew nothing about polyamory. He should make an effort to rectify that. There must be a lot of trust involved. If Peter and Elizabeth had an agreement, they both needed to stick to that agreement for their marriage and their outside interests to work.  
  
Neal explored the Burkes’ kitchen. It was shiny and open and polished, but not in the glossy way of style magazines or home shows. This was a kitchen that belonged to real people, used every day by real people who enjoyed working in it. The grates covering the gas burners on the range were worn, the cast iron skillet and copper sauce pans were well-seasoned. The tea kettle matched the tiles, but the enamel was chipped and the base discolored from frequent use. Everything looked well-used and well-cared for. An odd, whimsical thought made Neal smile; even though these were inanimate objects, they seemed happy to be there.  
  
He smiled at the vase filled with yellow and orange dahlias – the colors were all wrong for the kitchen. Happy flowers didn’t need to match the tile work or countertops. Flowers like these just needed to _be._  
  
Neal brushed a finger against one of the bright blossoms and was rewarded with a small handful of petals. Happy flowers needed fresh water.  
  
As did the dog, who all but danced on his feet when Neal turned the faucet on. He freshened up the vase, freshened up the dog’s water and had a horrible thought. Was this one of those houses where you couldn’t turn on the water if someone was in the shower? He ran over to the staircase, listening for the sounds of Peter screaming in pain. Nope, nothing more than the thump of water pipes shutting off and footsteps going from one side of the hall to the other.  
  
Neal went back to the kitchen and wondered if he should put together something for breakfast. Or would that be presuming too much? Maybe he could take Peter out, but he thought it would be a good idea to head home, change his shirt and put on some clean underwear before being seen in public.  
  
He was still mulling over the problem of breakfast when the sound of slow, steady footfalls on the steps announced Peter’s arrival.  
  
Neal hoped he kept his jaw off the floor and his tongue in his mouth. Peter, all sweaty from exercise, was almost too delicious to resist. Peter, fresh from the shower, hair slicked back, wearing a blood red Henley and a pair of button fly jeans, was like a secret wet dream.   
  
Despite the quick shower this morning, Neal felt distinctly grubby. But Peter didn’t seem to mind. He gave him that slow, deep smile that had attracted Neal at their very first meeting.  
  
"I’m glad you hung around. I thought you might have decided to head home."  
  
Neal blinked. "You know, it’s a little scary to say but that never occurred to me. I’ve actually spent the time wondering what you’d like for breakfast."  
  
Peter’s smile got a little broader. "You were thinking of cooking for me?"  
  
"Actually, more like heading out for bagels and lox or maybe going to the diner where I bailed on you last night. You really wouldn’t want to eat my cooking."  
  
"But I did, didn’t I? At brunch last Sunday?"  
  
Neal felt a flush start somewhere around his navel and quickly rise. "I – uh – had it catered."  
  
Peter just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "How do you feel about pancakes? I’m really in the mood."  
  
Neal couldn’t remember the last time he had them, maybe when he was twelve? "Sure, sounds good. Can I help?"  
  
"Nah – it’s a one-man job. Coffee?"  
  
"Of course!" Neal hadn’t overlooked the espresso machine on the counter and watched with appreciation as Peter made just one perfect, tiny cup. "You’re not having any?"  
  
"I will, after I get everything going."  
  
To Neal’s delight, Peter put on an apron and set to work. "You like cooking."   
  
"Yeah – I do. It’s a process and requires attention to detail but room for experimentation."  
  
"I guess you don’t get a lot of room to experiment as an FBI agent."  
  
"No, not if you want to keep your badge. The work is good; it’s important and meaningful. It’s …" Peter sighed.  
  
"You miss it."  
  
"Yeah, I do." Before Neal could ask him another question, Peter changed the subject. "What type of pancakes?"  
  
"Type?"  
  
"Unless you just want them plain, your choices are blueberry, banana, or …" Peter opened one of the pantry cabinets and came up triumphant with a yellow and black bag. "Chocolate chip?"  
  
He grinned. "Is that what you’re having?"  
  
"With El not here to tell me ‘no’? You bet your sweet ass I am. And since we’re going to hell in a hand basket, how about some bacon to go with the pancakes?"  
  
"Another forbidden treat?"  
  
"You’re not going to blackmail me, are you?"  
  
"Over bacon?" Neal laughed. "Nah – not worth the effort." Besides, Elizabeth Burke wasn’t stupid. If Peter cooked bacon, she’d surely smell it when she came home.  
  
While the pancakes might have been scratch-made, Peter pulled an alarmingly large package of pre-cooked bacon from the freezer. He must have noticed Neal’s expression. "Okay, so El and I indulge on the weekends."  
  
"Not really too much to blackmail you with, then."  
  
Peter shrugged and smiled and Neal wondered if he just passed a subtle test.  
  
He watched the other man cook, taking great pleasure in the wordless camaraderie that flowed between them. Over the past two months, he’d been feeling his way forward with the Burkes. Mostly focusing on repairing the damage he’d done. He wasn’t sure he was fully redeemed, especially when it came to Elizabeth, but for the moment, he was letting himself think about a future that included plenty of breakfasts with Peter and Elizabeth.  
  
It didn’t take much longer for Peter to finish preparing the feast. Neal set the table, taking almost too much enjoyment out of the domesticity and the sense that he was part of this household and not merely a welcome guest.  
  
The eating was accomplished much like the cooking had been, in companionable conversation. Neal complimented Peter on his culinary skills.  
  
Peter was a little shy when he admitted, "I’ve always loved cooking."  
  
"You and El share the kitchen?"  
  
"Actually, Elizabeth sort of hates cooking. Her favorite recipe is take-out."  
  
Neal laughed. "That is sort of funny for someone in the food business."  
  
"Well, it makes sense in a way – she knows all the best caterers."  
  
The conversation went back and forth about nothing important. They talked about cooking – which Peter knew a great deal about; about wine – which was more Neal’s area of expertise. Neal chided Peter for sneaking a piece of bacon to Satchmo, who’d remained glued to his master’s side since the start of the meal. The dog had obviously trained his master well.  
  
"It’s all the sodium and nitrates. It’s bad enough we’re poisoning ourselves – you shouldn’t give it to your dog."  
  
"It’s just a tiny piece."  
  
"You feed him the top of the line organic, hormone-free, corn-free, meat by-product-free food, but give him bacon?"  
  
Peter sighed. "I know, I know I shouldn’t. "  
  
"You’re right, you shouldn’t. He’ll be around to love you a lot longer if you don’t sneak him bacon."  
  
Peter held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.   
  
Neal felt a little bad. "Sorry about the lecture. I just see too many pets that are too well loved by owners who don’t know how to say ‘no’. They’re called ‘puppy-dog eyes’ for a reason."  
  
Peter’s lips twitched. "I’m kind of a soft touch. I do the same thing when it comes to my human family. My mother-in-law is addicted to Matlock and my father-in-law thinks that Perry Mason is the epitome of crime drama. You have no idea how torturous it is to spend the holidays with them and they insist on marathoning those shows. I want to tear my hair out."  
  
"But you preserve family harmony and pretend to enjoy because they’re Elizabeth’s parents and it’s not worth the argument?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Breakfast finished, Neal insisted on doing the dishes. He still wanted to ask Peter about the shooting, but somehow introducing that conversation seems out of character with the gentle banter they were indulging in. He didn’t want to break the golden mood.  
  
He didn’t really want to go home, either, so when Peter offered to make cappuccino, he quickly agreed. They sat on the patio, enjoying the late morning sunshine. It was probably one of the last times they’d enjoy the setting until the late springtime. The conversation took a meandering path. The local sports scene, and how Peter was torn between rooting for the Knicks and the new hometown team, the Nets. Neal told Peter a little about growing up in the neighborhood before Brooklyn became so trendy. Eventually the conversation turned to more important things.  
  
"So, polyamory. When I think about it, and about you and Elizabeth, I’m still sort of …" Neal searched for an adjective that didn’t seem offensive.  
  
"Appalled?" Peter leaned back in his chair and smiled.  
  
Neal nodded slowly. "Obviously, I’m all for it, with you and Elizabeth. But you’re an FBI agent, doesn’t that present some complications?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "It can. But by and large, our partners have been professional people. White collar, if you will."  
  
Neal grinned at the double-entendre. "I guess it only becomes an issue when you’d have to arrest them."  
  
"That hasn’t happened yet."  
  
"But it could."  
  
Peter gave him an odd sort of look and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He raised his hand in mock defense. "Don’t worry – I don’t have any plans to commit a crime."  
  
"No, I didn’t think you did."  
  
"But seriously – don’t you worry that your bosses would find out?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "Maybe, but the divorce rate for FBI agents is about twice the national average. There’s sort of an expectation that marriages fail."  
  
"That’s sort of … sad."  
  
"Yeah. And I’m lucky – my boss has always been of the mindset, ‘don’t ask, don’t care.’ If it’s not illegal or self-destructive, he doesn’t care what I do on my own time."  
  
Neal had to smile at that. "Okay, let me get this straight. You can have consensual orgies, so long as everyone wears a condom."  
  
"Basically."  
  
"Nice boss."  
  
"Smart boss. He knows what matters."  
  
They sat in silence, enjoying the birdsong and the sunshine. Neal had another question. "Have you ever had a problem with your partners? Have things gone badly?"  
  
"I wish I could say no. We’ve been careful in choosing partners, always making certain that whomever we’ve added into our lives understood that the marital relationship was primary."  
  
Neal cut him off. "You do know that I would never come between you and Elizabeth - "  
  
Peter reached out and covered his hand, squeezing gently. "I know that. I just want to explain."  
  
"Okay"  
  
"We don’t – unlike some poly people – use formal or written rules to define the parameters of our relationships with outsiders. And you know the promise El and I made …"   
  
Neal nodded. His balls still felt a little blue.  
  
"But we’ve always been clear that there should be no expectations that either one of us is looking to change the status quo. And no matter how clear we’ve been, there had been times when a temporary partner has tried to make the relationship exclusive and permanent."  
  
"Seriously? It sort of boggles my mind. The two of you are like the halves of the same coin, inseparable."  
  
Peter never really liked that analogy, if just because those sides never saw each other, but he was pleased by Neal’s perception none the less. "It’s happened a few times. The relationships were ended quickly."  
  
"And cleanly."  
  
"Well, the breaks were clean, but there was this one time…" Peter trailed off, a look of disgust on his face. "Let’s just say, El and I shouldn’t have known better."  
  
Neal wanted to ask what happened, but there were other things he wanted to know. "You said you’d tell me about the shooting."  
  
Peter raised an eyebrow at Neal’s abrupt change of subject. But he didn’t demur. "You want to know what happened?"   
  
Neal swallowed his coffee. "Only if you want to tell me."  
  
Peter sighed. "It’s a pretty straightforward story. I was leading a team executing an arrest warrant. The subject of that warrant pulled a gun and shot me six times in three seconds."  
  
"Somehow, I think there’s a hell of a lot more to it than that."  
  
"Of course, there is. I just wanted to give you the basics, first."   
  
"Peter, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to." It was too clear that even the memory was distressing him.  
  
"I know, I know. The thing is, I’m going to have to tell what happened eventually."  
  
"You will?"  
  
"The man who shot me will be going on trial in a few months."  
  
"He’s not dead?"  
  
"No." Peter kept his gaze on the table. "He shot me, dropped his weapon and claimed self-defense. Apparently it happened so quickly that my agents hadn’t had time to clear leather."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Breakfast was a sour lump in his stomach as he tried to tell Neal what happened. If he was wise, he’d take the out Neal offered. But he’d never been a coward and he wasn’t going to become one now. "I don’t suppose you ever heard of Gary Jennings?"  
  
Neal shook his head. "Should I have?"  
  
"Not unless you followed local politics. Jennings was a state senator up for reelection."  
  
"I was living in Richmond for about six months before I bought Ellen’s practice. Was in Boston before that. And Chicago before that. Never a need to follow New York State politics, though I’ve read that the local system is exceedingly corrupt."  
  
"Yeah, ‘exceedingly corrupt’ is a good way to put it. We’ve had local politicos wearing wires and catching others offering and accepting payoffs. State representatives offering to rig the mayoral election. You name it, New York State’s elected officials have been indicted for it."  
  
"Including the attempted murder of an FBI agent?"  
  
"Including that." Peter paused and watched a pair of squirrels chase each other over the back fence and up a tree. "Jennings was corrupt, too. He was also ambitious and stupid."  
  
"Stupid, how?"  
  
"He actually hired an assistant campaign manager who had a sense of ethics."  
  
"That seems … unlikely."  
  
"It does, but Dylan was young and started out as a true believer."  
  
"And there’s nothing more dangerous than someone who loses faith."  
  
"Exactly. Dylan came to the FBI with evidence that Jennings was funding his campaign using a straw donor scam."  
  
"Straw donor scam? What’s that?"   
  
"State election laws cap the amounts that any single person can donate. If you have an over-the-limit donation or funding from a questionable source, you can cover that by getting a bunch of regular people to write smaller checks then reimbursing them under the table for their contributions. This way, everything tallies up when the books are reviewed."  
  
"Makes sense."  
  
"We’d been watching Jennings for years. There were some questionable loans on some failed property development projects that were magically paid off. We investigated but couldn’t prove anything. It didn’t help that Jennings had something of a populist reputation and was able to make the loan investigation appear partisan."  
  
"So, when you wanted to investigate the campaign finance allegation, you needed a different tactic."  
  
"Exactly. We had to be careful or this could come across as sour grapes, particularly since Jennings was already looking beyond Albany." Peter laughed a little at the memory. "It was a good investigation. My team outdid themselves."  
  
Neal picked up on his affection. "Tell me about them."  
  
"I have …" Peter corrected himself, because right now, he had no one. "I had a team of a dozen field agents, but there were two who I always could rely on."  
  
"Your right and left hands?"  
  
"That’s one way to put it. You’d like them. About ten years ago, Clinton had talked his way onto a task force I was forming. He had an impressive resume, but not a lot of field experience. My gut told me that he’d fit in perfectly, even though there were a dozen other agents with a lot more experience that should have gotten the position."  
  
"And you always listen to your gut?"  
  
"Always." Peter took a sip of his now-cold coffee. "Almost always, anyway. Diana was once my probationary agent." At Neal’s raised eyebrow, Peter explained. "I trained her after she graduated from Quantico – one of the best probies I’ve ever had."  
  
"Probie – that sounds a little dirty."  
  
Peter chuckled. "Yeah, I guess, to an outsider it would. Anyway, we sent Diana undercover as a fixer. She would work her way into the inner circle, see if she could locate the real source of Jennings’ funding."  
  
"How did you manage that? I wouldn’t think an experienced politician – especially one who’s got some under-the-table financing going on – would be willing to trust a newcomer to the campaign."  
  
"No, but we ran a variation on the old ‘good-cop, bad-cop’ play – except we called it ‘bad-cop, good-criminal.’ I’d burst onto the scene as the aggressive and ambitious FBI agent, looking to take Jennings down for the old loan scandal. Get him worked up about that and Diana would conveniently offer a solution. One that wasn’t quite so honest and above-board."  
  
"Which was?"  
  
"She came up with the idea of creating a political distraction. Like a stage magician – keep the public focused on a completely unrelated problem until after the election, until after Jennings could figure out how to get me off his back. She had Jennings make several statements that he wasn’t in favor of building a new stadium."  
  
"That seems counter-intuitive. A new sports stadium would bring in revenue into his district, jobs, all sorts of perks." Neal’s skepticism was well founded.  
  
"Except that the new stadium would take land that should have been set aside for a children’s playground."  
  
"Huh? That would be an awfully big playground."  
  
Peter just smiled, still proud of his team’s out-of-the-box thinking. "Maybe, but the kicker was that there was no stadium. It was a complete non-issue; just a bunch of locals getting worked up over some old ideas that had been fielded back when the city was contending for the 2012 Olympics. Diana twisted it into a campaign issue for Jennings to use and he fell for it."  
  
"And that got your agent into Jennings inner circle? He told her about the straw donor scam?"  
  
"Oh, it was nowhere that easy. I’d already ruffled Jennings feathers – came into his office, all threats and bluster – told him that I planned to bury him. He tried to set the dogs on me, get me fired. Had the house watched. El had been traveling and Clinton came over, we had some business to discuss. Jennings had pictures and wanted Diana’s take on them. He had correctly figured that Clinton was another agent, but she convinced Jennings and his right-hand man that Clinton was doing outcall." He watched Neal’s reaction and wished he could video it – the slow blink, the dawning comprehension, the absolute incredulity, and then the utter amusement.  
  
"That Diana sounds like she’s part con-artist."  
  
Peter shrugged. "She’s good, she’s creative, she’s smart. She understands the rules and she knows how to work within them. Those are the qualities I need for every agent on my team." Peter tried not to think about all the months he’d spent not having a team and all the months ahead of him before he could return to active duty. That team he’d so carefully built probably wouldn’t exist by time he came back.  
  
"And how did your other agent – Clinton – react when he found out? That Diana said he was a male escort." Neal made air-quotes around that last word.  
  
"Oh, Clinton was fine with it. And it gets better. Jennings jumped all over that information. He thought that he could use it as blackmail – to get me to back off. He also tipped his hand a bit, that he knew a guy who provided certain services..."  
  
"Services?" Neal looked puzzled.  
  
"A high-class pimp."  
  
"This does gets better and better." Neal laughed, then paused. "Sorry, I forget I know how the story ends."  
  
Peter shrugged. "That’s okay. If Jennings hadn’t shot me, I think this would have been one of my all-time favorite operations." He stretched his leg, ignoring the pull of the tight muscles, the unfamiliar click-pop in his kneecap. "Anyway, Diana arranged to have Clinton meet Jennings’ ‘friend,’ which turning into an unexpected audition."  
  
"I take it that your agent didn’t follow through."  
  
"Actually, he did. One of the ‘guests’ at the party was a ball player who just signed a new multi-million dollar contract."  
  
"And I’m guessing that the team that signed him didn’t know he was on the down-low."  
  
"Yup. Clinton took the man upstairs, stuck his badge in his face and told him that unless he played along, he just might find himself arrested for solicitation."  
  
"And he played along."  
  
"To the tune of ten grand, which Clinton had to produce by three AM. And don’t give me that look – we vouchered the cash and he got it back, with the thanks of the FBI."  
  
"I don’t suppose you’d tell me who …"  
  
"Nope – you don’t need to know that." Peter grinned. "The guy did have a record-breaking year, though."  
  
"I guess, if I was really that interested, I could figure it out." Neal held up a hand before Peter could ask him not to. "But I’m not."  
  
"Anyways, it turned out that the pimp – Roger Barrow – had a record for violence and when he tried to shoot my agent, Clinton took him out."  
  
"He killed him?"  
  
"Nah – one bullet, right through his shoulder. He sung like a bird when he realized he was facing charges for the attempted murder of a Federal agent."  
  
"Life in prison?"  
  
"Yeah. That has a way of motivating people. Barrow gave up Jennings and all of his ‘donors.’ He even gave us the ledgers, so we could trace the payments from the prostitution ring to Jennings’s straw donor accounts."  
  
"And then you went and arrested Jennings?"  
  
Peter nodded. "Took about an hour to get the arrest warrants, and we marched right into his office at the end of the day, after almost everyone had gone home. Jennings was there – I think he may have been tipped off, but he was sitting at his desk like nothing was wrong. Watching; waiting as my agents started seizing computer equipment, boxing up papers, pretty much tearing the office apart."  
  
"You’d have thought he’d cause a fuss."  
  
"You would, wouldn’t you? Anyways, he just sat there until I came in. He didn’t say a word, just stood up, pointed a gun at me and started shooting. Three seconds, six bullets." Peter rubbed his chest. He could still feel the punch of the impact as the first two bullets knocked him back. He started to sweat as the memories, vivid, began to overtake him and he was back there. The burn in his arm, the blunt trauma in his shoulder, the sudden absence of stability – his leg giving way as the last two bullets shattered bone.  
  
"Peter? Peter?" There was a hand on his, squeezing tight.   
  
He blinked, and he wasn’t in that midtown office anymore, but in his backyard in Brooklyn. Geese were flying overhead, the sun was bright, but it really wasn’t that warm. His vision was filled by Neal Caffrey’s face, his eyes just a shade lighter than the sky.  
  
"Peter?" Neal cupped his cheek. "Tell me you’re okay?"  
  
"I’m – I’m all right." He licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry and the thought of having more of the ice-cold coffee was nauseating. "Just – let’s go inside."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal watched Peter drink a couple of glasses of ice water and worried. He looked like someone suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, and Neal was far too familiar with that look. He’d seen it in the mirror on way too many mornings.  
  
"Come on." He pulled Peter towards the couch and sat down next to him. He’d learned that one of the best ways to work through a bad episode was through physical contact. It was why he didn’t abandon his career as a vet. Because even on the worst days, having a warm, living animal to care for helped him get past the worst of his anxieties. It wasn’t a panacea and he’d probably have been better off with some intensive therapy, but over the months and years, he was able to rebuild himself.  
  
Peter hadn’t told him, but Neal figured that he was seeing a therapist – he was sure that the FBI insisted on it. But right now, Peter was sweating and shaking and in need of simple physical contact. He put a hand on Peter’s back and gently stroked him, as if he were a child in need of comfort.  
  
Satchmo, sensing his master’s distress, climbed onto the couch and draped himself across Peter’s lap.  
  
The shivering eventually subsided and Peter came back to himself. "I, uh – I’m sorry."  
  
"What are you sorry about? Is it my turn to lecture you about making unnecessary apologies?" Neal kept his tone light, joking.  
  
Peter gave a little laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Turn the tables on me when I’m down."  
  
"Down, but not out." Neal stopped the stroking, but kept his hand on Peter’s back. Peter sighed and leaned into him.  
  
The sat like that for a while, and Satchmo, bored now that Peter seemed to be okay, hopped down. He sniffed around the living room and came up with prize. Neal wasn’t sure what it was until Satch took it back to his dog bed in front of the fireplace and started snuffling and licking it.  
  
Neal was about to excuse himself and discreetly retrieve his briefs, when Peter looked from the dog to him and back to the dog, who was enjoying his find excessively.  
  
"Umm, Neal?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Why does Satchmo have your underpants on his head?" The pup looked up at the sound of his name, and he was, after a fashion, wearing Neal’s underwear on his face.  
  
"I – uh – I …" This time, Neal didn’t hesitate. He got up and grabbed at the underpants. Except that Satchmo was just a bit quicker and thought that one of his favorite humans was playing a game. His teeth clamped down and as hard as Neal tugged, Satchmo tugged back just has hard. Neal knew he should probably let go and get something to distract the dog, but Peter’s laughter egged him on and he kept tugging. So did Satch, who was clearly enjoying the game.  
  
Neal gave one last tug, the cotton ripped and he fell backwards, onto his ass. Satch was no longer interested in the mouthful of fabric he had left, dropped it at Neal’s feet and retreated back to his bed.  
  
Neal sat on the floor, embarrassed at his wounded dignity, but delighted at the sound of Peter’s unrestrained whoops of laughter. It was infectious and he started chuckling, too. Finally, the laughter eased and panting, Neal looked up at Peter, relishing the joy that sparkled in his eyes, a contrast to the earlier bleakness. This was how Peter should always look. He was a man made to be happy.  
  
Peter caught his breath and grinned as he asked, "I have to know, do you often go commando?"  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
The baby shower was finished and Elizabeth asked Yvonne to stay and oversee the cleanup. She had a nice fat check from the grandmother-to-be in her wallet and it was time to head home. Elizabeth never minded these early morning events, unless she had to work another one that night.   
  
But today wasn’t one of those days, and she had the rest of the weekend to look forward to. Enjoy a little downtime with her husband. And maybe with Neal, too.  
  
El thought about her ambivalence yet again, and was annoyed by her own dithering. She wanted Neal to be part of their lives, she was attracted to him, she understood why he ran hot, then cold. Why he avoided them for so long, and why he was so cautious now. But she was tired of doing all the work.   
  
None of the past relationships she and Peter had shared had been this much effort. Their partners had been easy to bring into their lives and just as easy to let go of. Only Asher had come close to this amount of drama, because Asher was a dramatic person who enjoyed being the center of attention.  
  
Elizabeth kept telling herself that Neal would be worth all the drama. He made Peter happy, that was certain. He gave her husband something to focus on, something to worry about other than himself and his recovery.  
  
She wasn’t blind. She didn’t need the FBI fitness guidelines spelled out for her to know that Peter’s chances of being certified for field duty were slim. He could walk without a cane, and that was a miracle, but he couldn’t run and be a functioning member of his team. The FBI made little allowance for agents in the field and El knew that being permanently assigned to a desk would be torture for her husband.  
  
But what choice would he have? Retire and do what? It wasn’t a question of money. They’d talked about it, back when it seemed likely that Peter might never walk again. He’d retire on full salary because he was wounded in the line of duty. He’d keep his benefits, and they wouldn’t have to worry about an income, even if El wanted to retire too. Back then it seemed likely that they’d need to move into a house more suitable for someone with mobility issues. Selling the house in Brooklyn would substantially contribute to their nest egg.  
  
That was a moot point, now. Peter was mobile, he got around just fine. Just not ‘fine’ enough to suit the FBI, it seemed.  
  
Neal distracted Peter from that, which wasn’t fair to either man. Neal wasn’t simply a project or a shiny new toy to take her husband’s mind off his problems. Peter sincerely cared for him, and El knew, without question, that that caring could easily turn to love.  
  
She just wanted to feel the same way. She’d been the strong one for so damn long, and right now, she just wanted a relationship where she didn’t need to be in charge, in control. She wanted to be catered to, cosseted, treated like a princess. She didn’t want to have to make all the decisions.  
  
At least the early afternoon traffic was light and she didn’t have to make any decisions about what route to take home. It was a little before one as she climbed the front stairs; the sound of unrestrained laughter making her smile. If Neal was the one making Peter laugh like that, she could live with whatever drama he brought into her life.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
Neal had left shortly after Elizabeth got home. Peter didn’t try to convince him to stay. The knowledge that Neal wasn’t wearing any underpants sorely tested his self-control, but really, he wanted to spend some time alone with his wife. They needed to talk about where they went from here, and he needed to know if her ambivalence to a relationship with Neal centered on misgivings about his emotional stability or her own lingering hurt about how Neal treated them earlier this summer.  
  
"Someone made pancakes." El tapped the cast iron griddle Peter had used. "Someone made pancakes without me." She looked stern, and Peter couldn’t get a read on whether she was truly put out or was jerking his chain.  
  
"I can make pancakes for you if you want." Peter stood there, hands in his pockets.  
  
El smiled. "Tomorrow, maybe." She checked the water in the bouquet of flowers on the counter and gave a small, indecipherable smile. "You and Neal have a nice morning?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Just … yeah?" Her smile was still enigmatic. "Neal seemed rather shattered last night, you sat up with him until two AM before you put him to bed in the guest room, and ‘Yeah’ is all you have to say?"  
  
"When did you take interrogation lessons? Is there a friends and family program at Quantico that I didn’t know about?" Peter grinned, but he wasn’t all that sure why he felt the need to deflect.  
  
"Ahh, hon – I know you and we’ve been married for fifteen years. Partners have come and gone, but not a single one of them made you laugh the way you did when I came home."  
  
Peter felt himself flushing.  
  
El came over and kissed him. "I liked hearing that laughter. I liked hearing the joy shared by the two of you."  
  
Peter was surprised that she didn’t want to know what they were laughing about.  
  
She kissed him again and cupped her palm against his cheek. "I want you to have your happiness with Neal."  
  
Peter had to ask, "But what about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"You’ve been, well, a bit reluctant about Neal." El started to say something, but Peter cut her off. "I understand why. He hurt you. He hurt you very badly, and even though it came from a place that, thank god, we’ve never had to experience, the damage he did was real."  
  
El sighed. "Yeah, I’ve tried to hide it, but I suppose I haven’t been very effective."  
  
Peter stroked her hair and wrapped an arm around her, loving the feel of her warmth, her softness. "You’ve been my rock. You’ve been keeping me upright, keeping me going, you’re entitled to crack."  
  
"Hmmm." El relaxed into Peter’s hold. "I’m not sure that I really know what _I_ want from Neal – "  
  
"Hon?" Peter wasn’t really surprised by her admission.  
  
"I know I want you to have your happiness with him. He’s a good man who’s had some horrible experiences and I think that the two of you will be good for each other, but I don’t know if I want the same thing." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "We don’t have to be a perfect triangle."  
  
"In other words, ‘V’ is for Victory?"  
  
"Exactly." El let go of him. "I’m going to go change into something a little sloppier. Wanna come keep me company and tell me just how you spent your morning? Or maybe we could … " She ran a hand down his back and squeezed his ass.  
  
"How can I resist an offer like that?" Peter let his wife lead him upstairs, to their bedroom. She was humming something and he gave a shout of laughter as he recognized the tune – it was "Afternoon Delight".   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal left a few minutes after Elizabeth came home. When Peter asked him about going commando, they had both gotten hysterical again, like a pair of fifth-grade boys, and Elizabeth had picked that moment to arrive. She stood there, smiling at them and when he finally recovered some dignity (although Peter was still chortling), he’d discreetly retrieved the torn underpants, shoved them in his pockets and thanked her for her kindness the night before.  
  
The streets were busy, the denizens of Cobble Hill were enjoying their early Saturday afternoon. But it only took him a little more than five minutes to reach his front door. To find Mozzie sitting on the front steps, enjoying the New York Times and a cup of tea.  
  
"Hey there, Moz."  
  
His oldest friend didn’t bother looking up from an article in the Book Review. "The weary traveler returns."  
  
Neal wasn’t completely sure who he was talking about. Even though he wanted to go and change out of yesterday’s clothes, he sat down next. "Good trip?"  
  
"Hmm, what can one say about modern air travel? You stand on line for hours, you’re subjected to indignity after indignity, then you get ready and wait for hours, only to be stuffed into a tin can that stays aloft by exploiting a quirk in the laws of physics. Upon finding yourself back on solid ground, you wait on line _again_ , you’re subjected to more untold humiliations before finally having the privilege of claiming your baggage, which may or may not have arrived on the same flight."  
  
"Are you done?"  
  
"I’ve only started."  
  
Neal tilted his face up to the sun, the warmth and light felt nice on his skin.  
  
"You’re looking well, _mon frère_."  
  
"Thanks, Moz."  
  
"I mean it. You look … happy."  
  
Neal turned to face his friend. There was a surprising amount of compassion in that gaze. "I think I am."  
  
"I take it, since you weren’t home last night, that ‘things’ have progressed?"  
  
Neal grimaced. "No, actually they haven’t. At least not as far as you’re implying."  
  
"You’re still worried about the Suit and his Bride?"  
  
"No. You were right, Moz. Peter and Elizabeth are two of the most decent people to walk the face of the earth."  
  
"Then what’s the issue?"  
  
"The same as it’s always been. Me."  
  
"Ah. You’re still gun shy."  
  
"Which is irrational."  
  
Moz put a hand on his knee, squeezing gently. "You were hurt very badly and I didn’t really help matters by keeping you in the dark and at a distance for so long. I’ve always regretted that."  
  
Neal waved off the apology. "You were there for me when I needed you, Moz. You saved my life; you got me back on track."  
  
"If I hadn’t left in the first place, you might not have been in that situation in the first place."  
  
Neal thought back to those early, heady days with Matthew, when he was so much in love. "That’s possible. But I think, unlikely. June tried to warn me and I didn’t want to listen."  
  
Moz took a sip of his tea. "Even if you hadn’t listened to me, I wouldn’t have allowed it to happen."  
  
"Moz?" Neal wasn’t sure he understood what his friend was saying.  
  
"I’m a firm believer in free will and making your own decisions, but you’re my friend – you’re the closest thing I have to a family. I would have taken care of Keller, whether you wanted me to or not."  
  
Neal let out a surprised huff of laughter. "Do I need to be scared of you?"  
  
"Nah. I’m pretty harmless, unless you piss me off."  
  
Of that, Neal had no doubt.   
  
"So, the Suits …"  
  
Neal sighed. "I made some bad mistakes there."  
  
"Like telling Elizabeth Burke I was your long-lost boyfriend?"  
  
"Yeah. That’s one."  
  
"And is Peter still holding a grudge?"  
  
"No, not at all. He’s …" Neal searched for the right word. "Wonderful. He forgave me, he’s been so careful with me."  
  
"Too careful?"  
  
Neal shrugged. "Maybe."  
  
"But Mrs. Suit isn’t wonderful?"  
  
"Oh, she is – but I know she’s still angry."  
  
"You humiliated her."  
  
"I did."  
  
"You need to make it right."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And how do you plan to do that?"  
  
"That, I don’t know."  
  
"Have you had any time alone with her?"  
  
"No, not really. When I’ve seen her, it’s always been with Peter. Had them over for brunch last Sunday."  
  
"You cooked?"  
  
Neal actually felt his friend’s delicate shudder. "I had it catered."  
  
Moz refocused on the real issue. "But you’ve haven’t made the effort with her."  
  
Neal was about to reply, but paused. Mozzie’s phrasing struck a chord. "No, I haven’t."  
  
"Then maybe you need to. Maybe you need to be the one who does the wooing. From what you told me, Mrs. Suit was the one who made the running in the first place. You spurned her. Maybe you have to actually do something more than rely on your baby blues, your fabulous head of hair, and your winsome smile. You might actually have to do some work."  
  
"Yeah." Neal sighed. "And any suggestions on how to do the wooing?"  
  
"Who do you think I am, Cyrano de Bergerac? My nose is not that big."  
  
"I wasn’t implying that it was. But, help?"  
  
His friend was quiet for a moment. "Don’t suppose you want to woo her with sonnets and anonymous deliveries of long-stemmed roses."  
  
"This isn’t high school. I don’t want her to think she’s got a stalker."  
  
"Ah, and her husband carries a gun. Maybe the direct approach might work best."  
  
"Not sure what you’re getting at?"  
  
"How about simply taking her out to lunch and talking with her? Man to woman. Put your cards on the table. Let her see that you’re sincere, harmless, and that you want nothing more than her happiness."  
  
"If only it was that simple."  
  
"It’s not? You don’t want her happiness? You’re not sincere?"  
  
"That’s not what I mean, Moz. I mean – I can’t just tell her that."  
  
"What not?"   
  
"Because – "  
  
Moz waved a hand, dismissing his objections. "Don’t play games, Neal. You’re not some world-class con man who needs to lie and misdirect as much as he needs to breathe. You’re a veterinarian who’s been kicked around by life and has had the tremendous good fortune to find two people who what you to be part of their life. Their very good life. _Carpe diem,_ Neal. Seize the day and make the most of it."  
  
At the end of that extraordinary speech, Moz got up and stretched. "If you need a wingman, you can count on me – but I don’t think you do. Just be straightforward and honest."  
  
As if to convince himself, Neal repeated, "Straightforward and honest."  
  
"Have I ever steered you wrong, _mon frère_?"  
  
Neal grinned. "Well, there was that time, when I was in my freshman year, and you convinced me to try those brownies …"  
  
"And you had a mind-altering experience."  
  
"I also flunked my Chemistry midterm."  
  
"Don’t dwell on the small stuff. Besides, I changed your grade, remember?" Moz patted his shoulder. "You coming in?"  
  
"In a bit. Have a lot to think about."  
  
"Yes, my friend, you do."  
  


 

  
  


  
  
  
It was Monday and Elizabeth came in from a meeting with a new client, when Yvonne announced with great delight, “You got a delivery.” "   
  
"Hmmm, thanks, but I get deliveries all the time." She hung up her coat and was headed for the coffee maker. The weather changed last night, a cold front sweeping away the autumn sunshine. Wind and rain battered against the glass storefront, and the whole office seemed bleak. Except for the enormous bouquet of flowers occupying a place of honor in the middle of the showroom floor.  
  
The bouquet was vast and almost incomprehensible. There were tulips – exotic gorgeous, fringed varieties, fantastic dahlias in blazing pinks and oranges, ruby-throated lilies, all interspersed with white roses the size of teacups and lush greenery framing everything.  
  
"These came for you about a half-hour ago."  
  
El reached out and brushed a finger against one of the flowers, it was so perfect she almost didn’t think it was real. "Was there a card?" She had no idea who’d send her flowers like this. Not her husband – he preferred to make his grand gestures in bed. Asher, maybe? He’d called a few times and they’d talked, behaving like casual friends getting to know each other again. Except that he always made it clear that he’d be interested in picking up where they’d left off. And despite what she and Peter had decided a few months ago, Asher’s offer was more and more appealing.  
  
Yvonne handed her the small envelope. El recognized the florist’s seal, it was a company she used for only of the most exclusive and expensive events she managed. Yes, this was a gesture that Asher would make. She smiled as she opened the card.  
  
And blinked. The flowers weren’t from Asher.   
  
Yvonne had the good sense and better manners not to pry about the card, but she was obviously curious. "A happy client?"  
  
"Yes." _Damn, she hated lying._  
  
"Ah." Thankfully, Yvonne didn’t say anything more than that and drifted back to whatever task she’d been doing before El came back from lunch. Her assistant knew that she and Peter had a somewhat unconventional marriage, but she never pried or passed judgment.   
  
She looked at the flowers and then down at the card and back at the flowers again. She carefully plucked a single white rose from the bouquet and headed back to her private office.   
  
The card was as succinct as the flowers were extravagant. Just a simple request, "Please call me, Neal."   
  
Her stomach filled with butterflies as she read those four words over and over again, tapping the white rose against her cheek. She was a little giddy, a little frightened. Hadn’t she just told Peter that she wasn’t sure she wanted a relationship with Neal, that they might be better as a "V" than a perfect triangle? And now, looking at the card, seeing that bouquet, she felt like a teenager who was waiting to be picked up on her first date.  
  
She put down the rose and took a deep breath before dialing Neal’s number. It rang twice before he answered.  
  
"Elizabeth?"  
  
She could hear the smile in his voice. "Hi, Neal."  
  
"You got the flowers."  
  
"Yes, and they’re magnificent."  
  
"I hoped you’d like them – I noticed you were partial to dahlias."  
  
"I am, and tulips and lilies and roses."  
  
"Good. I’m glad."  
  
The silence strung out for a bit, but not uncomfortably.  
  
El asked, because they were supposed to be friends and she wanted to find the right level with him. "How was the rest of your weekend?"  
  
"It was good, mostly quiet. Yours?"  
  
"The same." She and Peter had spent most of Saturday afternoon lounging in bed. Neal didn’t really need to know that. "We went to movie on Saturday. Sunday was a typical chore day. It’s not a glamorous life we lead."  
  
"It’s the ordinary things that make life good."  
  
"That’s true." She thought about all the extraordinary events in her life – the good and the terrible. Yes, there was something to be said for the ordinary life.  
  
"Elizabeth?"  
  
She smiled at the slight nervousness she heard in Neal’s voice. "Yes?"  
  
"Are you free for lunch today? I don’t have office hours after eleven and I’d like to take you to out."  
  
"Just me?"  
  
"Just the two of us. How does that sound?"  
  
"Mmm, nice. Where?"  
  
They talked restaurants for a bit and settled on a SoHo bistro. El figured that the menu wasn’t really going to matter. And she was right.  
  
A little before one o’clock, she breezed into the restaurant, her cheeks flushed from brisk walk. She’d debated taking a cab from her office, not wanted to look mussed. But the cab lost the debate. Her showroom was only a dozen blocks away and she didn’t want to appear like she was trying too hard, either. So, it was a bright red power suit, with heels that were high enough to flatter her legs but not so high that she’d end up crippled from the walk. The morning’s storm had blown out, leaving one of those perfect autumn days that New York City was so famous for in its wake.  
  
Neal was waiting at the bar. Elizabeth was reminded of their first meeting – when he appeared to be nothing more than a carefree young professional, one who had piqued her husband’s interest and hers too.   
  
He met her halfway across the room and kissed her cheek. She felt very continental and even a bit naughty, as if she hadn’t shared her marriage with others over the past dozen years.  
  
The hostess showed them to a comfortable booth towards the back of the restaurant and left them alone for a few minutes.  
  
"So." She might have had the urge to be cosseted, but she would never be a shrinking violet. "Why am I here?"  
  
Neal smiled at her, his pleasure lighting up in his eyes. "Thank you for this."  
  
"For meeting you for lunch?" She looked at him from under her eyelashes  
  
"That, for starters."  
  
"What’s the main course, then? You?" Neal blinked and El cursed herself. She was running hot and cold, and if there was one thing that annoyed her, it was inconsistency.   
  
Neal didn’t stop smiling, but his expression turned thoughtful. "I could be on the menu, but maybe not for lunch – not this afternoon."  
  
"Then let me ask again, why am I here?"  
  
Neal rested his hand palms down on the table, fingers spread wide. She liked the look of those hand against the dark wood.  
  
"I treated you very badly."  
  
All the girlishness, the heady, flirtatious mood she’d worked up on the walk over, vanished. "You did, but not without reason."  
  
Neal reached out with those long perfect fingers and snagged her hand. He didn’t hold it like a lover, like someone bent on seduction. He held it like her hand, her being, was a gentle, delicate creature, something that might shatter at the slightest touch. "Maybe my reasons were good, maybe they weren’t, but that’s besides the point. I never apologized to you. I may have, to Peter, but not to you. That day in the liquor store, you called me a liar and a coward – "  
  
"Neal – "  
  
"No, let me finish. I was just what you called me, a liar and a coward. I was too afraid to see that the two of you were offering me something wonderful, something I should never have been afraid of. I’m more grateful that words can express that Peter’s been able to forgive me. But I’m not sure that you’ve forgiven me." Neal paused and took a breath. "And I’m not sure how I can earn the right to your forgiveness."  
  
Neal, in his earnestness, looked impossibly young. Then she met his eyes and that illusion vanished. He looked older than anyone should. He was wary, but still hopeful.  
  
"I’ll be honest, Neal. I wasn’t sure that I could forgive you. I wanted to, I wanted to make you part of our lives. There was something there. There still is."  
  
"But?"  
  
She turned the hand he was holding, so their fingers meshed. "But …"  
  
"I’m not easy. I have too much baggage." The sad twist in Neal’s smile was heartbreaking.  
  
"You do." Elizabeth sighed. "But maybe the problem isn’t your baggage. Maybe it’s me. I’m tired. It’s been a long, hard year." She licked her lips. "And maybe I don’t want to have to be strong for you, too." There, she said it.  
  
Neal seemed to understand. "I don’t know if I could be as strong as you are – as you’ve been. Peter told me what happened, how he was shot." Neal squeezed her hand. "I’ve seen the scars and I can barely imagine how he survived."  
  
El shuddered at the memory. "I don’t know, either. A miracle of science, a lot of luck. That Peter’s walking is almost incomprehensible. Five years ago, he might have lost his leg. That bastard used cop-killer bullets on him."  
  
"Peter didn’t tell me that."  
  
"Yeah – if he hadn’t been wearing one of the new vests, he would have died from the first shot." She shook her head, trying to dispel the rage and fear that thought always brought.  
  
"You’ve been with him every step of the way, haven’t you?"  
  
She nodded, but was unwilling to share the details. "A lot of long days and longer nights. But we pulled through."  
  
"And right now, you deserve someone a little easier, someone who doesn’t have as many issues as the _New Yorker_."  
  
She laughed at the analogy. "Maybe. But Peter wants you in his life. He cares very much for you."  
  
"Is that a problem?"  
  
"No. Not at all. When I came home on Saturday, hearing him laugh like that, knowing that you brought that to him, made me so happy. How could I object?"  
  
Neal sighed. "But I’m not what _you_ want."   
  
El admitted to her ambivalence. "I don’t know."  
  
"You don’t know?"  
  
"Objectively, Neal – you’re everything I _could_ want. You’re smart, you’re sensitive, you appreciate who and what we are."  
  
"I just have a lot of baggage."  
  
"Yeah." She wanted to erase the clouds she put in Neal’s eyes. "You and Peter – you have my blessing. Don’t doubt that."  
  
"Thank you – but still, it feels unfair."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Peter gets me, I get Peter – what do you have?"  
  
"Well, I still have Peter. He’s my husband. He loves me very much."  
  
"I know that, but …"  
  
El chuckled. "You don’t really know much about polyamory, do you?"  
  
Neal shrugged. "I haven’t done a lot research on the subject."  
  
"Quite a few of our poly relationships haven’t been triangles."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"We’re not always a threesome. Peter’s had his interests, I’ve had mine. Admittedly, some of our best times have been with a shared partner, but not always."  
  
Neal nodded, processing her statement. "So, if Peter and I are together, you will have Peter and someone else?"  
  
"Maybe. Likely."  
  
"Someone easy? Someone uncomplicated?"  
  
"Probably."  
  
"That seems … fair."  
  
"You don’t sound convinced."  
  
"It’s not that."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"I, well …"   
  
Even in the dim light of the restaurant, Elizabeth could see the blush stealing across Neal’s cheeks. "Neal?"  
  
"I want you, too."   
  
The way he bit his lip and looked at her, it made her want to drag him off to the nearest hotel room and have her wicked way with him. It made her want to forget all her hesitations. But she didn’t give in. She reached out and stroked his cheek. "That’s not off the table, but I think that right now, it might be best for us to find our own normal without the complications of sex."  
  
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.  
  
"I know I was the one who did the chasing at first, but I think I need someone to woo me – "  
  
"For what it’s worth, I think I wanted to be caught. But … "  
  
El understood the dilemma. "You were afraid. And I didn’t understand."  
  
"But you were still hurt."  
  
"Yes, and I am annoyed that I’m still hurt."  
  
Neal gave her a considering look.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Maybe you’re not so much still hurt but wary."  
  
"Of what?"  
  
"Getting involved with someone who’s never been part of the poly life – "  
  
She was about to interrupt – this was nothing new, and not something she hadn’t considered.   
  
Neal held up a hand, forestalling her. "It’s not only that. I’m a novice when it comes to a relationship based on trust and respect. I need to learn a whole new set of behaviors."  
  
"I think you’re doing fine."  
  
"But with Peter."  
  
She conceded the point. "Maybe we should try for friendship, first. Then see what happens."   
  
"I’d like that. I’d like to be your friend."   
  
Something unknotted in Elizabeth, a tension she didn’t realize she was holding onto. "There are duties that come along with friendship, you know." Her tone was teasing.  
  
"Such as?" Neal’s smile changed just a bit, becoming more boyish, more open.   
  
"Feeding me. I’m starving."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter had come to loathe Mondays in a way he never did when he was a kid or a student or even a young adult first getting around in the work-a-day world.   
  
He had a standing appointment with the FBI shrink on Mondays. The woman was relentless, picking and prying and combing through his psyche, making him talking about things he didn’t want to discuss, asking questions that seemed innocuous but were of vital importance.  
  
Peter could respect her, he _did_ respect her, and he understood the job she did. But it didn’t make things any less painful.   
  
Over the past few months, he had taken a bunch of psychological assessment tests. Some were familiar, retreads of the tests he taken as an applicant almost twenty years ago. Others were annoying, filled with questions about how he felt about his bowel movements. He did variations of the Rorschach test, rapid response word associations, and a whole battery of attitude tests.   
  
Apparently, his answers were not good enough and the FBI had required him to attend a weekly therapy session to address his "issues" about the shooting. This was his sixth meeting with Doctor Emily Crawford and he had to know if he was getting anywhere.  
  
So he asked.  
  
The doctor took off her glasses and gave him a level look. "Peter, I appreciate that you’re concerned, but these sessions are nothing unusual. You’ve had a traumatic experience – physically and psychologically."  
  
He sighed. "And you’re not really _my_ therapist, are you. You work for the Bureau. Your reports go to the Bureau. I remember what I signed. It wasn’t like I had a choice." Peter felt unaccountably bitter today.   
  
"You had a choice, you always have a choice."  
  
"Really? If I didn’t sign on the dotted line and agree to waive the doctor-patient confidentiality, I’d never be re-certified for even a desk job, let alone field work. Hell, if I didn’t agree to these sessions with all of their conditions, I’d probably be transferred to the Resident Agency office in Kew Gardens for the rest of my career if the Bureau didn’t force me to retire. Some choice."  
  
"You really think that?"  
  
Peter had to give her points for credible skepticism. "Not ‘think,’ Doctor, I know. The Bureau might make noise about my value as a highly trained agent, due all honor from being wounded in the line of duty, but if I’m deemed a risk, they’ll shuffle me off to someplace where I can’t do any damage. It’s all about image these days." Peter closed his eyes and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.  
  
"Then why do you want to get back so badly?"  
  
"Because I love what I do. I love being able to help people." He laughed. "About half of my division’s case load is the most unglamorous work you could imagine. In the last eight years, I’ve worked about twenty different boiler room scams."  
  
"I’m not really familiar with the term, Peter. Can you explain it?"  
  
Peter raised an eyebrow at that – he didn’t believe for a moment that the good doctor didn’t know what a boiler room scam was. But he explained it anyway. "Some Wall Street whiz isn’t content with the twenty percent he legitimately collects in management fees, so he sets up a room – literally – in some out of the way place – "  
  
"Like a boiler room?"  
  
"Exactly. And he’ll hire a few dozen junior Gordon Geckos to push some penny stock on unsophisticated investors."  
  
"Penny stocks aren’t that much of a risk – isn’t that why their called that?"  
  
"If you know what you’re doing, you can make a lot of money, but these traders are cold-calling people whose entire investment experience might be picking a mutual fund or two when they signed up for their company’s 401k plan."  
  
"That doesn’t sound particularly illegal."  
  
"You’re right. Technically, it isn’t illegal or fraudulent to prey upon unsophisticated investors. But it doesn’t stop there. The stocks these boiler room scams are pushing are hyped with all sorts of false information. A drug company stock might be touted as the next IBM by claiming that the company is about to release a new miracle product – something that will cure cancer or the common cold. The trader will provide all sorts of data that makes it seem like he’s sharing insider information – or claim that he’s got an inside track with the FDA – but in truth, the company’s holding on by a thread. Other trading companies might pick up on this, start buying stock, raising the share price. It’s a classic pump and dump scenario."   
  
Peter built up a head of steam. "The guy that set up the room? He’s invested a few million in this worthless stock, and he’ll cash out when he’s going to make the most profit. He sells his shares, his traders sell theirs, maybe – but the men and women who bought on the recommendation of these liars and thieves? They’re left with nothing. They’ve invested their life savings on what was sold as a sure thing and now they can’t pay the mortgage, they can’t send their kids to college, they can’t retire because everything’s gone. All because someone got greedy."  
  
Peter paused, took a deep breath and finished. "This is what I do. It’s not exciting, it’s not glamorous. It’s nothing like what you see on television. But it matters. I can do good."  
  
Doctor Crawford deliberately capped her pen and closed her notebook. "Thank you for telling me that, Peter. I know that this has been difficult and you might feel like you don’t have any allies in this process."   
  
"You’re not my ally." He was blunt with the truth.  
  
"I’m not unsympathetic. And I’m not your enemy, either."  
  
Peter nodded, knowing that this was the best he was going to get. "Are we done." He hoped so.   
  
"For today, yes. I’ll see you next Monday, one PM."  
  
"I’ll be here. With bells on." He let out a huff of laughter. "Sorry – the sarcasm doesn’t help my cause, I know."  
  
The doctor didn’t say anything, but her lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Elizabeth should have stopped Neal as poured out the rest of the third bottle into her glass. She didn’t.  
  
She should have stopped him before he asked the waiter for another bottle of that really excellent Italian red.  
  
She should have stopped _herself_ before she told Neal how she asked Peter out on their first date.  
  
But there was something about Neal – when he was so open, so eager – that made a joke of her self-control.  
  
"Let me get this straight. Peter was stalking you? Using FBI surveillance equipment?"  
  
"Yeah – it was kind of adorable."  
  
"Adorable? Seems a bit … I don’t know … extreme?"  
  
The touch of worry in Neal’s tone, the sudden shadow in his eyes, penetrated the golden haze of a three-bottle lunch. "Oh, sweetie – it was nothing like that. Peter was just too shy to ask me out."  
  
"Shy? You can’t tell me that Peter Burke, FBI agent and a man so dominant that you’d have to climb Everest to top him, is shy?"  
  
She had to laugh at that analogy. Peter _was_ dominant. "That may be, but he can get a little tongue-tied around someone he finds attractive. I bet when he first met you, he was less than eloquent.  
  
Neal blinked and she could almost see the memories spool back.  
  
"Yeah – he did seem a little tongue-tied at first." But Neal still seemed a little disturbed by their early courtship. "You weren’t freaked out by him, seriously?"  
  
"Nah – he was just – " El was about to say that Peter was just trying to make sure she wasn’t dating anyone else, but thought better of it, in light of Neal’s history. "He just was working up the courage to ask me for a date."  
  
"And I guess he finally did."  
  
"Actually, I was the one who asked him. I knew he was watching, so I made a sign telling him that I loved Italian food."  
  
"And he bit?"  
  
"Big time. Took me to this terrific little hole-in-the-wall place on Arthur Avenue, got red sauce all down the front of his shirt and I took him home with me that night."  
  
"To clean him up?" Neal was grinning.  
  
"That’s one way to put it!" Elizabeth leaned over the table and stared Neal right in the eye. "You better not break my husband’s heart, Neal Caffrey."  
  
He reached out and touched her cheek, the amusement in his eyes replaced by something deeper, richer. "The thought of hurting either of you again terrifies me."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
It was a little before two and Peter was at loose ends. When the sessions ended, he usually went downtown to take Elizabeth out for a late lunch, but she had emailed a picture of the flowers Neal had sent, letting him know that she was going to meet with him. He had no problems with that. Peter wasn’t going to interfere with what needed to happen between his wife and Neal. Elizabeth had to make up her own mind – he’d be equally happy with her as part of a relationship with Neal, or if she decided she wanted something else.  
  
"Peter?" A very familiar voice called his name.  
  
He looked around and spotted, of all things, a Municipal Utilities van. An equally familiar one, with the dent and scrape of yellow along the back fender where it had been sideswiped by a taxi a few years ago. Lost in his own thoughts, he would have walked right by it if Diana hadn’t opened the side door and called out.  
  
Peter didn’t wait for an invitation and climbed in.  
  
"You’re looking very good, boss!" She hugged him tight.  
  
"Thanks. I’m doing good." It wasn’t really a lie. He’s been better.  
  
She pulled him into the operations center. Jones was there and greeted him with pleasure.  
  
Clinton pointed to the display. "We’ve been tracking you since you came out of the McGraw-Hill Building. Diana was all set to pounce if you passed by."  
  
"It’s good to see you – both of you." Good barely described his emotions. "But shouldn’t you be tracking your suspect?"  
  
The two agents – two _other_ agents – laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. Jones commented, "We’re here, monitoring a pen register on the phones belonging to a day trader who’s currently on vacation in Aruba."  
  
Peter blinked, "That doesn’t seem to be the best use of your skills. Why isn’t it automated?"  
  
Diana sighed and didn’t answer. "When are you coming back? The temporary SAIC that was assigned is getting way too cozy in your office."  
  
"Temporary SAIC? I thought that Hughes was running things? When did this happen?"  
  
Diana and Clinton exchanged looks. "About three weeks ago. Amanda Calloway – from the Atlanta office – breezed in and took charge. Hughes didn’t look too happy about it, but all he said when he introduced her was that her assignment was temporary."  
  
A cold, sick feeling settled under Peter’s heart. He’d spoken with Reese a couple times over the few weeks, including coffee exactly a week ago, and his old friend hadn’t said anything about a replacement, temporary or otherwise. However, he wasn’t going to make matters worse by telling Clinton or Diana that. "And your take on Agent Calloway?" Their paths had crossed a few times. She wasn’t a particularly good investigative agent, but she was ambitious and knew how to cultivate the right people who would advance her career.  
  
Clinton confirmed this opinion. "She’s very popular in certain circles. Very ‘efficient,’ if you get my drift."  
  
Peter did. He might have had one of the highest closure rates in the country, but he also had to answer for frequent cost overruns, too. The higher ups didn’t mind when there were results to justify the expenses, but in this economic climate, he had to suppose that someone who paid attention to the bottom line was going to be rewarded. And yet something didn’t make sense. Why was she’s wasting valuable resources? Sticking two senior agents in a van monitoring an inactive wiretap was pointless.  
  
"When are you coming back, Peter?" Diana asked again, this time with a note of desperation in her voice.  
  
Suddenly, Peter understood everything that Diana wasn’t saying. "I wish I could give you an answer, Di. I haven’t even been cleared for desk duty yet."  
  
"But it will be soon?"  
  
"I hope so."  
  
Clinton gave him a sour look. "It’s only been a few weeks since Calloway arrived, but it feels like eternity. Is there anything that we – " He pointed to Diana and himself, "Can do?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "No, I’ve got to work through the process. I guess that getting shot and almost dying generates an awful lot of paperwork." He tried to make light of the situation. "I don’t recommend it."  
  
His agents smiled, allowing the tension to break.   
  
"Listen, maybe you two want to come over for dinner next week? Elizabeth would love to see you."  
  
They chatted for a few more minutes, making plans for a social evening. These two were more than just his best agents, they were his friends and he needed to let them know that.  
  
Diana checked the cameras and gave him the all-clear. No one was watching. Their suspect wasn’t even in the country, but it was standard operating procedure to make sure that they weren’t under observation. A man in casual street clothes climbing in and out of a work truck was memorable for all of the wrong reasons.  
  
Peter didn’t wave or say goodbye once he was back on the street, but he walked halfway up the block, turned and nodded, certain that his friends were watching.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal got home and found Mozzie perched at his kitchen table like a gnome in a country garden.   
  
"So, how did lunch with Mrs. Suit go?"  
  
That appellation was beginning to annoy Neal. He glared at Moz and tried to remember that this man saved his life, literally. But today, he just wasn’t in the mood.  
  
Moz wasn’t accepting his silence. "Well?"  
  
"Lunch was fine."  
  
"Did she like the flowers?"  
  
"I think they were a little overwhelming."  
  
"It’s the gesture that counts."  
  
"Four hundred dollars for something that’s going to be tossed into the trash in less a week is quite the gesture."  
  
"It’s not like you paid for them."  
  
"I wish you wouldn’t do things like that."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Get things…"  
  
"What do you mean, ‘get things’?"  
  
"You know what I mean – you ‘get’ things. Without paying for them."  
  
"You think I stole those flowers?" There was just a touch of outrage in Mozzie’s question. It wasn’t convincing.  
  
"Not exactly ‘stole’."  
  
"Can you stop talking with quotation marks around your words? I hate that."  
  
Neal sighed. "Sorry. And Elizabeth loved the flowers."  
  
Moz nodded, looking like a very serene turtle. "Good. And for the record, I didn’t steal them. They were just … redirected."  
  
Neal refrained from sighing. Moz was Moz. Brilliant, quirky, loyal and if he occasionally felt the need to indulge in a little felonious behavior, what could Neal really do about it?  
  
"So, the lunch?"  
  
Moz was also relentless.  
  
"Lunch was good. I had the salmon with grilled asparagus, Elizabeth had an arugula and goat cheese salad with dried cranberries and candied walnuts. The bread was freshly baked and the butter, French. We split three bottles of Grosjean Valle d’Aosta Torrette Superieur. All in all, a lovely meal."  
  
"I didn’t ask you for your menu. How did it _go_?"  
  
"You don’t like when I talk in quotation marks, I don’t care for the italics in your tone."  
  
"Stop with the deflecting already. Has Mrs. Suit forgiven you?"  
  
Moz wasn’t going to leave it alone, so Neal answered. "Yes."  
  
"Yes, that’s it? Nothing more?"  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"Details, my friend. I want the details."  
  
Neal bit back a sharp retort and gave a more measured answer. "I really appreciate that you’re looking out for me. You’ve been the best friend anyone could want and your support has been invaluable – "  
  
Moz cut him off. "But what goes on between you and the Suits isn’t my business. Unless I have to rescue you."  
  
"Moz – "  
  
"Can it, Neal. I know what I’m good for."   
  
Moz got up, but Neal reached out and grabbed his wrist. "That’s not what I’m saying."  
  
"Then what are you saying?"  
  
"It’s all very new, very …" Neal searched for the right word. "Delicate."  
  
Moz nodded slowly. "And you’re afraid you’ll jinx it?"  
  
"Yeah." He hoped Moz would understand his reticence.  
  
He did, but still asked, sounding sad, "Will I need to move out?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well, don’t you want your privacy – in case you want to _be_ with them?"  
  
Neal shrugged. "I could always hang a sock on the door."  
  
Moz chuckled. "Yeah – that would bring back memories."  
  
Neal chuckled, too. They’d met as roommates at Harvard, and Neal – a very young sixteen year old freshman, had no idea what the sock on the doorknob meant. He’d learned quickly, after walking in on Moz in a sandwich between two very well-endowed redheads. "But seriously, Moz – I want you to stay. You’re my best friend and I need you in my life."  
  
Moz took off his glasses and started wiping them furiously. "Okay. Then I’ll stay."  
  
"And I want you to meet Peter and Elizabeth."  
  
"I’ve already met the magnificent Mrs. Suit."  
  
"Moz – "  
  
"All right, all right. Set it up, I’ll be there, with bells on."  
  
Neal just said, "Bells will be fine, just leave the seersucker for your Good Humor route."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his gut, the one he knew he needed to listen to. The unexpected meeting with Clinton and Diana and the news they gave him left him shaken. He needed to see Reese, maybe even meet with Calloway and try to find out if she really believed the assignment was temporary.  
  
It didn’t seem like that, though. Three weeks in and she was already doing her best to make life difficult for his top two agents, giving them meaningless assignments. She couldn’t have them reassigned without cause, but she’d do everything she could to make them transfer out and bring in her own staff.  
  
Or he could be over-thinking this and there might be a good reason why she had Diana and Clinton sitting on a dormant pen register, twiddling their thumbs.  
  
But bursting into Hughes’ office, making demands wasn’t the best way to go about it. Reese had been his greatest advocate for as long as Peter had been with the White Collar division. Hell, it was Reese who offered him the job there so many years ago. After the debacle with Matthew Keller, his career was bound for a dead end. He’d pissed off the wrong people and whistleblowers were never anyone’s favorite employee. At least not until the screenwriters got ahold of the story and it was Oscar season.  
  
Reese had stood by him, promoted him, he made sure he had the resources he needed to do his job. And he was more than just a boss. Reese was a good friend, and the only person other than Elizabeth who he trusted without question. Which made the news about Calloway unexpected and disturbing.  
  
Peter sent Hughes a text, letting him know he was near the office, asking if he’d he like to meet for coffee.   
  
He received a reply about two minutes later.  
  


_Yes, and we need to talk_

  
  
Peter’s gut started churning in overdrive.  
  
There was a small, old-fashioned coffee shop about three blocks from the office, the kind with high booths that gave the patrons an illusion of privacy. He’d been a regular for years, and had met Reese here a few times since he’d regained his mobility. As Peter made his way towards a booth at the back, he glanced over at the other patrons – mostly construction workers and a few office drones. No one he recognized. No one who seemed to be FBI. No one who’d be the least interested in his conversation.  
  
As he sat down, Peter laughed at himself. Once, years ago, Elizabeth called him a professional paranoid. It was said in affection, but Peter recognized the truth of that. He never went into a situation without making sure he had all the information. Well, almost never. The last time that happened, he almost died.  
  
A waitress came with a cup of coffee and a menu, which Peter declined. He probably should have declined the coffee too – it was strong enough to strip paint. But it gave him something to do while he waited.  
  
Reese arrived just after his first refill.  
  
Peter didn’t bother with any pleasantries. "I ran just ran into Berrigan and Jones."  
  
Hughes grimaced. "And I guess they told you."  
  
"About my ‘replacement,’ yes."  
  
"It’s only temporary."  
  
Peter just looked at Reese over the rim of his coffee cup.   
  
"It is, Peter."  
  
"Somehow, I’m not reassured."  
  
Reese made a face. "Can’t you trust me?"  
  
"I saw you a week ago. We sat here, in this very booth, when Amanda Calloway was already in place and setting up shop in my office, but you didn’t say a word to me." Peter took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper. "I have to wonder why that is."  
  
Hughes nodded. "I can understand that you’re annoyed at me."  
  
"Why didn’t you tell me?"  
  
"It’s only temporary, Peter."  
  
"You’ve already said that, and it’s not really an answer to my question."  
  
Reese took a sip of his own coffee and frowned. "I know."  
  
"Do you know something?" Peter was getting more worried as every second passed.  
  
"About what?"   
  
He knew that his old friend was deflecting, buying time – but for what, Peter was afraid to find out. "About whether or not I’m ever going to be cleared for active duty."  
  
That seemed to shock Hughes. "What? You don’t think you’re coming back?"  
  
"I’ve been mobile for three months, Reese. They’ve had me with a department therapist for almost two months. It’s beginning to feel like I’m going to be forced into early retirement."  
  
"Well, I can assure that that that’s not the case. You were shot and nearly killed. It’s a miracle you’re walking. No one’s even considering making you retire. You’re too valuable and now that you’re feeling better, you anxious to be back in the saddle. I understand that, but coming back before you’re physically and mentally ready is the worst possible thing to do. We’re understaffed as it is, and with your record, they aren’t going to let you go so easily."  
  
"We’re perpetually understaffed, and because of the damned sequester, the entire Bureau has to take furlough days. The brass are looking for any way to cut headcount and keep costs down. Clinton mentioned that my replacement has an eye for efficiency. That has to sit well with the higher ups."  
  
"Efficiency doesn’t equal a 93% conviction record, Peter. Amanda Calloway is a placeholder." Before Peter could interrupt, Reese held up a hand. "Yes, an ambitious placeholder but that’s all she is. She can’t touch your record."  
  
Peter wasn’t sure he believed Reese, but short of calling him a liar, he had to accept that statement at face value. But he couldn’t let it go. "Why now? You’ve been running my team since the shooting. Why bring in a new broom at this stage?"  
  
"Peter …"  
  
He didn’t like the tone in his old friend’s voice. His gut started roiling for a completely different reason.  
  
"What’s the matter?"  
  
Hughes sighed and grimaced. "I didn’t want to tell you. Not yet, anyway."  
  
"Are they forcing you into retirement?"  
  
"No."  
  
That single syllable didn’t do much to relieve Peter’s anxiety. "Then what?"  
  
"I had some tests. The results were … inconclusive."  
  
"Reese?" Peter was afraid he knew what Hughes was about to tell him.  
  
"They found a lump on a lymph node. It may be malignant."   
  
Ten years ago, Reese had a cancer scare. Actually, it was more than just a scare. He had Hodgkin’s disease. They caught it early, but he still needed treatment: surgery and radiation. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was effective. It had been easier to tell everyone he was retiring rather than deal with the sympathetic looks, the horror stories from well-meaning colleagues. As Reese had said at the time, he didn’t want to deal with all the crap that came when too many people knew his business. Peter was one of a very few people who knew that the "retirement" wasn’t really a retirement.  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Yeah – that’s just what I said."  
  
"So, what happens now?"  
  
"I’ve got a bunch more tests scheduled. A few that will take me out of the office for some time."  
  
"Which is why you had to get someone else in. You can’t run both the department and my crew." He understood but couldn’t help wish that Reese had tapped Clinton for the job, especially if it was going to be temporary.  
  
Reese nodded. "I didn’t want to dump it on you. Which was wrong, I know. But – "  
  
"If you admitted it, it became too real."  
  
"Exactly." Hughes sighed. "Don’t worry. You’ll be cleared soon. Calloway’s only temporary. I promise not to let her get too comfortable. And I’ll try to keep an eye on Jones and Berrigan. They deserve better treatment than they’ve gotten from her."  
  
And yet, his friend’s words did nothing to calm Peter’s turmoil.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
Elizabeth was, admittedly, a lot less than sober when she got out of the cab. That’s what happened when you split the better part of three bottles of wine. She had wanted to walk back to the office, telling Neal that the exercise would help to sober her up, but Neal had insisted. "It’s after three, it’ll be dark soon."  
  
"And we’re in Lower Manhattan. The worst thing that could happen is that I’d be mugged by some desperate Wall Street type."  
  
He just looked at her, held out a hand and a yellow cab glided to the curb, just like that. To her surprise, Neal gave the driver a twenty, with the admonition to avoid potholes and pedestrians. As the taxi pulled away, Elizabeth turned and watched Neal as he just stood there, hands in his pockets, like some sentinel.   
  
The ride back to the office took less than ten minutes and she wasn’t surprised that the cabbie didn’t offer her any change, even though the fare was a third of what Neal had given him.   
  
"Nice lunch?" Yvonne gave her a head-to-toe look.  
  
"Very nice. Went to …" Damn, she couldn’t remember the name of the restaurant. "That new gastropub on Reade Street."  
  
"Uh huh." Her assistant nodded, but clearly didn’t believe her. "Flowers fit for a queen, a three hour-long lunch and you can’t remember the name of the place you ate at?"  
  
"It’s not what you think."  
  
"Yup, you didn’t just have a booty call."  
  
"Yvonne Felicity Adams, you get your mind out of the gutter." El tried for outrage. She failed miserably.  
  
"Right. You just had ‘lunch’." She crooked her fingers and made a too-familiar gesture after the last word.  
  
"And stop with the air quotes."  
  
"Okay, you’re the boss."   
  
El nodded. "Damn right I am." She hiccupped. "Have any breath mints?" Not that they’d sober her up.  
  
Yvonne handed her a box of Altoids with a wink. "Surprised you don’t carry these around with you."  
  
She took one, ignored Yvonne’s editorializing, and handed the box back. "I’m going into my office. Unless the world is coming to an end or the Bergerons call to change their colors, don’t bother me. And in fact, if the Bergerons call, don’t bother me."  
  
Yvonne chuckled. "Whatever you say."  
  
El pretended not to hear her assistant mutter under her breath, "That must have been some booty call."  
  
Closing the office door behind her, El sat down, slipped off her shoes and propped her feet on her desk. The postprandial buzz was pleasant, and has her eyes drooped, she knew that she’d pay for it later.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter watched his wife sleep and stifled an almost irresistible urge to wake her up in some outrageous way – maybe kissing her bare ankles, opening her blouse and nibbling on the soft, silken flesh he found there, or taking the pins out of her elaborate hair do and running his fingers through her scalp. But he contented himself with watching her sleep.  
  
Yvonne had warned him that Elizabeth had come back very late and a little drunk from her lunch date and dropped hints that his wife might have gotten lucky. She wasn’t trying to make trouble, not in the least. Yvonne had never been a bedmate of theirs, but she was part of the poly community. El had (and probably would) never admit it, but she’d hired Yvonne because of that.  
  
Peter sat and watched his wife sleep and wondered if she had, in fact, gotten lucky. With Neal.  
  
That thought stoked an unpleasant moment of jealousy, a feeling so foreign, so wrong, that he immediately tried to discard it. If Elizabeth had changed her mind and decided to pursue a physical relationship with Neal, she didn’t need his permission. It was just that he’d hoped that when the time was right, they’d all be there together.  
  
Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered and Peter donned his best loving husband smile. "Hey there, hon."  
  
She stretched and as the desk chair started to tip back precariously, Peter reached out and steadied her.  
  
El smiled at him. "My savoir – but what are you doing here?"  
  
"I had some time, thought we’d go home together."  
  
"Hmmm – thought your appointment was over at two? Figured you’d be long home by now."  
  
"Nah – ran into Diana and Clinton, spent some time talking." He didn’t tell her about the conversation he had with Reese. He was still digesting what his old friend had told him.  
  
Elizabeth fished for her shoes and when Peter turned on the overhead light to help her, she winced. "Neal Caffrey drinks like a fish."  
  
"Fish don’t actually drink." Peter hoped his tone was a little warmer than it sounded to his ears.  
  
His wife slapped at his arm. "You know what I mean. We split three bottles of wine at lunch." El found her shoes and put them on. "I don’t think even Asher drinks that much."  
  
"Asher? What’s he got to do with anything?"  
  
"Dunno, except that he can drink – and pardon me for my scientific inaccuracies, like a fish – too."  
  
"So, lunch was good?"  
  
"Yeah. It was."  
  
"And Neal? Was he good, too?"  
  
El gave him a questioning look. "Hon?"  
  
 _Damn._ "Just wondering how you got along with Neal today."   
  
"Fine – really fine. Actually better than fine."  
  
That cold, hateful knot of jealousy was back, but Peter strove not to give into it. "So?"  
  
"So, what?"  
  
"You and Neal?"  
  
"Neal and I, what?"  
  
This was getting ridiculous. "After lunch, you and Neal…"  
  
"Hon – what the hell are you talking about? After lunch, Neal insisted I get into a cab even though I wanted to walk back here. He’s a very old-fashioned kind of guy, to be honest." El blinked at him. "Don’t tell me you were listening to Yvonne?"  
  
Peter nodded, feeling like an idiot.   
  
"I’m going to kill her."  
  
"Hon, don’t say anything. I think she was just trying to be cute – when was the last time you came back from lunch like that?"  
  
"Okay, okay – but it’s really not that funny." El pushed her bangs off her forehead. "You know that I’m not interested in Neal like that – not right now."  
  
Peter reached for his wife and wrapped his arms around her. "I know, but you were, and you’ve been conflicted and there’s no reason not to take him up on anything that he’d offer."  
  
"I wouldn’t do that to you. We don’t do that to each other."  
  
Now he felt worse. "I know, I know – it’s just…" His voice trailed off. All the insecurities he felt during his therapy session, even when he was talking with Reese, came roaring back.   
  
El put a hand on his cheek, she sensed his distress. "I understand, hon." He clung to her, hating how needy he felt. But she held just as tightly to him. "Take me home, okay?"

 

  
  
  


  
  
Neal was starting to worry. Friday and it was five days since his lunch with Elizabeth, nearly a week after that momentous morning with Peter, but he hadn’t heard from either Burke.   
  
He couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done wrong. Or whether they had changed their minds. Peter had promised that he’d talk with Elizabeth, Elizabeth had told him that she’d given Peter the green light. And that the two of them could be friends – platonic for the moment, but the possibility was there for something more down the line.  
  
It was easy to avoid thinking about their absence when he was treating a gassy Pomeranian or a Newfoundland puppy who ate his owners’ car keys, but as he locked up each night, he found himself waiting for Peter and Satchmo, but neither of them arrived and he walked home, alone.  
  
The first night, he passed by the Burke’s house and didn’t see the living room light on. They weren’t home and he didn’t think twice about it. The second night, the light was on, he could see the silhouettes of people - a man and a woman - that he didn’t recognize. Neal he didn’t stop, although he wanted to. Stopping by when Peter and Elizabeth clearly had company would be weird and intrusive.  
  
The third night, he could see that the light was on; he could see the silhouette of Peter sitting on the couch and Elizabeth moving around. Neal made it halfway up the front steps before stopping and turning around and going back to the street. If they really wanted to see him, they would have called.   
  
So he headed home, feeling more than a little sorry for himself. Moz was in the living room, drinking and working on something, but Neal just waved and headed up to his bedroom for a good long sulk.  
  
Back in the early summer, when he was actively dodging them, Neal had walk a half-dozen blocks out of the way to avoid walking past Peter and Elizabeth’s house. That was the route he took last night, and tonight he figured he’d take that way home again. Seeing their house, seeing _them_ , but not being wanted, hurt.   
  
Donna and Mike had left for the day. It was after six - actually almost closer to seven - and it was well past the time to go home. Consulting hours were long over and he’d taken care of the animals that were overnighting, he’d fed The Demon Creature, finished annotating all of the day’s charts, and he could find absolutely no reason to stay here.   
  
Neal couldn’t help but contrast this to last Friday night, when he was looking forward to his first official "date" with Peter and Elizabeth, or the weekend before, when the Burkes were coming over for brunch. And even the weekend before that, when he and Peter had gotten together to watch the last Yankee game of the regular baseball season. Somehow, for some reason, he has no contact with the Burkes since Monday and he had to wonder and worry …   
  
It was stupid, he was being stupid. It wasn’t like he lived with them, or that the spent hours on the phone talking, or that they were like teenagers, constantly texting. Before last weekend, days would go by without a phone call or a text or an email. Except that just about every night he was working, Peter and Satchmo would show up and escort him home.  
  
Neal tried not to feel like such a teenager, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t help but wonder where he’d gone wrong, what mistakes he made. It must have been the lunch with Elizabeth, he must have somehow offended her, and this was their way of letting him know that he’d been out of line.  
  
But maybe this was payback, punishment, the karma debt for his bad choices.  
  
Neal stopped. No, that was not how the Burkes behaved. If they were unhappy with him, they’d let him know in no uncertain terms. They’d tell him. They didn’t play those games. Peter and Elizabeth were nothing like Matthew. They cared about him.  
  
Neal took a deep breath and made up his mind. It was early enough that he could stop by without being intrusive. He doubled checked the animals, smiled at The Demon Creature, who was perched on top of a filing cabinet. The cat hissed back at him. He turned out the lights and opened the front door.  
  
To find Peter standing here with his hand raised to knock, Satchmo sitting at his feet, at least until he saw Neal. The Lab jumped up, trying to give Neal a doggie kiss, but Peter firmly tugged on the leash and Satch gave a little bark before sitting back down.  
  
Peter smiled and reached out for him. "I get to kiss you first."  
  
And he did just that. He kissed the stuffing out of him and Neal clung to those broad shoulder because he went all but boneless as the kiss went on and on.  
  
Finally, Peter stepped back, licking his lips, which looked just a bit swollen under the streetlights. "Hey there. Missed you."  
  
Neal blinked, feeling a little disoriented and a lot happy. "Missed you, too."  
  
This time, Satchmo wasn’t going to be denied. He took advantage of his master’s distraction, leaping up to put his paws on Neal’s chest and tried to lick his face.  
  
"Down, boy." Peter’s tone was firm and brooked no disobedience. The dog sat and panted and looked at Neal with expectant eyes.  
  
"You’re doing it just right. You’re letting him know who’s in charge." But Neal couldn’t help but reward Satchmo for his improved behavior and got down on one knee to pet him. It was a strange vantage point and Neal was struck by an absurd but almost profound desire to serve Peter. It wasn’t the first time he had that feeling.  
  
There was a look in Peter’s eyes, or it might have been the streetlights, but Neal thought he saw approval there, understanding, and of course, desire.  
  
Neal got to his feet and they started walking towards home.  
  
"Sorry that I haven’t been around this week. I should have been by last night. Was planning to."  
  
"I was a little worried." Neal was grateful that Peter raised the subject. He was still feeling too insecure. "Everything all right?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."  
  
"You guess?"  
  
They walked and Peter took his time answering. "I found out some troubling things on Monday and I’m still working through them." Peter sounded sad and even a little lost, but not angry.   
  
"Anything you can tell me?"   
  
Peter sighed. "I learned that another agent has been ‘temporarily’ assigned to run my department."  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"It’s complicated."  
  
Neal knew better than to press, but he was dying to. Peter was so obviously upset. "Do you know him?"  
  
"Her, and yes. Our paths crossed once or twice. She’s extremely ambitious and I think she’s going to try and make it a permanent assignment."  
  
"And where does that leave you?" As soon as he asked, Neal regretted it.   
  
"I don’t know. I can’t seem to get any decent indication when I’ll be allowed to return to work. I thought I’d have been cleared for desk work by now, but no one’s willing to sign off on that."  
  
Neal had a million other questions, but didn’t ask them and they walked in silence down DeKalb, pausing every few feet to let Satchmo do his business. Still, it didn’t take long before they stopped in front of Peter’s house. It was dark, which was unusual - at least it seemed unusual to Neal.  
  
"Look, um - would you like to come in? El’s got a thing tonight and I’d like your company."  
  
Neal blinked. Peter’s offer was a study in diffidence. How different he was from the man who said hello and kissed him like he was the only thing in the universe that mattered. But he grinned and played it casual. "You cooking?"  
  
Peter smiled back. "Nah, I was thinking Chinese. You up for some Mu Shu and a couple of bottles of Tsingtao?"  
  
"Make mine General Tso’s, extra spicy, and I’m in." Neal didn’t bother to wait for Peter as he climbed up the front steps. Which was kind of foolish, since everything was locked up and he had to wait for Peter anyway. But Peter wasn’t that far behind him, and if he climbed the stairs a little slower than he had the last few times Neal had seen him, Neal wasn’t going to comment.  
  
They ordered dinner, fed Satchmo and made light, pointless conversation until Mr. Ping from Happy Family dropped off the order. Afterwards, they headed over to the couch with some beer - not the promised Tsingtao (that was somehow left out of the delivery), but Peter’s much-loved down market Heisler. Neal sat down, figuring that Peter would take the other end, but was shocked and delighted when the man dropped down next to him, so close they were touching from hip to knee. He didn’t need to resist the urge to lean into Peter, because Peter made resistance futile. He draped an arm over his shoulder and pulled him close.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Neal didn’t answer, he just leaned his head against Peter’s shoulder and let out a contented sigh.   
  
"I guess that means yes."  
  
"Mmm." The position was awkward, but Neal turned his head and pressed a kiss against Peter’s jaw. "Very much ‘okay’. I’ve really missed you this week." Neal stopped, wondering if that was too much. Too revealing. Too needy.  
  
But if it was, Peter didn’t seem to mind. "Missed you, too. It was a complicated week. I should have called or texted."  
  
Neal had a minor epiphany. "And I could have called you, too."  
  
Peter gave a snort of a chuckle and Neal loved the way the vibration went through his body. "Yeah, amazing how those things work both ways. So, why didn’t you?"  
  
"Figured you were busy. You had things to do."  
  
"Neal?" It was clear from his tone that Peter wasn’t buying that particular brand of bullshit.   
  
"Okay, I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t want to …" Neal tried to sit up, tried to put some distance between them. Peter wasn’t letting him go.  
  
"You didn’t want to, what?"  
  
"Seem too needy." There, he said it and once he said it, he couldn’t shut himself up. "I don’t want to screw this up again, but it sometimes feels like a minefield. I ran from you, but you and El were incredible. I behaved like a child and you forgave me, and sometimes I can’t believe you still want me. And you do everything you possibly can not to pressure me or make me feel threatened. But you don’t handle me - you don’t treat me like I’m damaged beyond repair, either. And I’m just terrified I’m going to mess up. I know it’s crazy - you two are the best thing that ever happened to me and I don’t want to wreck it."   
  
Neal paused and took a deep breath. "I’m sorry - I’m such a fucking mess." _At least he wasn’t crying._  
  
Peter turned him around and Neal was shocked to see that there were tears in _his_ eyes. "You’re not a mess, Neal Caffrey, and you didn’t behave like a child. You’re a human being whose been badly hurt and afraid of being hurt again." Peter kissed him, a gentle benison, an affirmation.  
  
It helped, a little. "I _know_ you won’t hurt me."  
  
"Fear isn’t logical." Peter’s smile was sad and understanding.  
  
He sighed again. "I guess not, but I wish I was stronger."  
  
"You are strong, Neal. You’re one of the strongest people I know."  
  
"I’m a quivering mass of insecurities, Peter. It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone I can trust without reservation. I’m terrified that I’ll screw this up again."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter leaned forward and brushed a hand against his jaw. "There was something you should know. Something that might terrify you even more."   
  
Neal didn’t say anything, he just stared at him with those large, endlessly blue eyes.  
  
"I’m falling in love you, Neal." He took a deep breath and jumped into the deep end. "Hell, enough with the equivocation. I love you and I need you to be part of my life – our lives. And I need to be part yours." His eyes never left Neal's. "Is it too much? Too soon?"   
  
"No. It was not." Neal’s smile was slow, like the breaking dawn. "And I’m sure I love you, too. In love, do love. I’m still terrified, but that’s not going to hold me back. I trust you."  
  
"I hope I’ll never give you a moment of regret." Peter’s heart felt way too full, like it did on his wedding day.  
  
"Where do we go from here?" There was something a little cheeky about that question, as if Neal was expecting a very specific answer.  
  
"To bed?" Peter hoped he was giving Neal the answer he wanted.  
  
From the glow that lit Neal’s eyes, it was. "Yeah. But would you kiss me first, Peter?"  
  
He was hit with an attack of butterflies. It had been a long time since he kissed a man. What if he screwed this up and ended up terrifying Neal? He tried to rein in his need to dominate, to take control and he let Neal set the pace.  
  
Neal’s fingers slid up his arms, over his shoulders. They threaded through his hair and his scalp tingles, his whole body becomes a mass of gooseflesh. His own hands, in mindless mimicry, cupped Neal’s skull, and bring him close enough to crowd out stray molecules.  
  
Peter brushed his lips against Neal’s, softly. It was as much of a pleasure as he remembered. He loved kissing Elizabeth, but kissing Neal was nothing like kissing his wife. Neal’s lips were narrow and firm, not pillowy and soft, but they were yielding all the same. Instead of El’s smooth, silken skin, Neal’s late day beard was rough, a completely different texture and Peter anticipated how that was going to feel on his body. He pressed harder, and Neal’s mouth opened under his. The feel of his submission was heady and Peter took care not to overwhelm Neal, to take things slowly, cautiously.   
  
But Neal was not giving in as much as letting him in.  
  
He touched his tongue to Neal’s, and discovered the other man tasted like beer and Chinese five-spice and something indefinably delicious. It was heady and exciting, and his sense of dominance was almost overwhelming as Neal clutched at his shoulders. He pushed Neal back against the couch, devouring him. He pressed against him, loving the feel of Neal’s tumescent cock brushing up against his own massive erection, grinding against him. But Peter pulled back, terrified that he was completely overwhelming Neal, breaking the hard-fought trust between them.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
Neal couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Peter’s hands were in his hair, his mouth was on his. _His mouth. God - his mouth._ He’d been dreaming of Peter’s mouth, his taste, his strength, for a months. Ever since that first kiss, on the front steps. He’d been fearing it too.  
  
But there was nothing to fear, and it was so much better than his dreams.  
  
And it wasn’t just lust, not just a feral act of copulation, an indulgence to ease a physical loneliness. This was the start of something he hoped would never end.  
  
Peter’s lips were hot, damp, firm and commanding, and it was all that Neal could do not to swoon like some film noir movie heroine. Peter had taken him over, captured him, and he was making him his. For the first time in memory, Neal felt himself open up to another person, putting his safety and his sanity in Peter’s hands. He moaned Peter’s name and reveled as his tongue slipped in, strong, but not demanding. And that made it easy to capitulate; there were no terms of surrender to negotiate.   
  
As long as there was trust between them, he knew he’d be safe with Peter. And with that he could be Peter’s. He could be whatever the man wanted of him.   
  
Peter pressed him against the couch and Neal undulated against him, reveling in his heat, the massive erection that ground hard against his own, and he wanted to sob with joy. This was all for him and the love and lust and desire was mutual.  
  
When Peter pulled back, the distance between them was a shock to his system.  
  
"What … what’s the matter?"  
  
He could still feel Peter’s cock, the heat and mass of it distending his fly was practically obscene, and he reveled in the knowledge that it was for him. Neal forced himself to look up. "Peter?"   
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
He sucked in his breath, touched beyond measure at Peter’s care for him. "Yeah, I am. I’m _very_ okay." He smiled, but Peter didn’t lose that worried expression.  
  
"I have to ask – is this the first time since…? " The question was all too obvious.  
  
Neal dragged Peter back down to him. "No. But it’s the first time with someone I’ve trusted, someone I’ve cared for. And it was the first time ever with someone who’s truly loved me." What he didn’t tell Peter was that this was going to be the first time he bottomed for anyone since Keller. That was something that Peter didn’t need to be burdened with right now.  
  
Peter was clearly shaken by that truth, and Neal ran a hand down the side of his face, coming to rest on his shoulder. But then he smiled at Neal. "I am honored by this. By you."  
  
Neal didn’t know how to answer, so he kissed Peter, trying to pour out all of the love and the longing and the desire that had been buried behind his damaged walls.  
  
Peter’s shudder of desire sent an answering surge in him and he wrapped his legs around his, and when Peter brushed his fingers against Neal’s lips, he nipped at the pad of his thumb before sucking hard. Peter tried to pull his thumb out of his mouth, but Neal didn’t let go easily.  
  
He rubbed up against Peter over and over, enjoying the friction of the hard denim fabric, his zipper and Peter’s button-down fly against his aching cock. It had been so damn long since anyone touched him like this, intent on giving him pleasure more than taking it. He finally allowed Peter to extract his thumb and reached up to kiss him again.   
  
Peter whispered, "You are going to drive me crazy, you know that?"   
  
Neal couldn’t stifle his moan when Peter licked a dirty, wet stripe from chin to earlobe. Damn, Peter knew exactly what buttons he needed to push. When Peter nipped his earlobe, he went boneless—except for a certain, almost terminally hard part of his anatomy.  
  
"Let’s take this upstairs. You deserve better than sex on the living room couch."  
  
"At least for the first time?"  
  
Peter growled his agreement into his mouth and the sensation was almost enough to end things right there. Neal almost came in his pants.  
  
They got up, untangling themselves with some difficulty. Peter led him upstairs, to the guest bedroom where Neal had spent the night just a week ago. They paused at the doorway and Peter stood behind him, his hands resting on his shoulders. Neal liked the feeling. From anyone else, he might feel smothered or threatened—but from Peter, the weight of it grounded him, made him part of the here and now.  
  
Neal turned to face Peter, enthralled by what he saw on the other man’s face. But there was hesitance too, which he understood. "I wouldn’t try to come between you and Elizabeth, Peter. You know that – you have to know that."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal must have read something on his face, read and misinterpreted.  
  
"Of course I know that."  
  
"Then what’s the matter? You can’t still be afraid of hurting me. I’m here because I trust you. I have faith in you, Peter Burke."  
  
"But I can hurt you. I worry that I’ll take over, make you do things you don’t want to do, make you dependent on me for anything and everything. I worry that you’ll look at me as see … him." Peter didn’t want to say that name, bring that evil into this room.  
  
Neal wrapped his arms around him and rested his head against his neck, whispering, "I don’t know whether to kiss you or smack you. You’re nothing like him, ever. Just because you’re a dominant doesn’t mean you’ll abuse me. And just because you’re a dominant doesn’t mean I’ll be frightened. And it doesn’t mean that I’ll allow you to take me over. I’m not the same person I was back then."  
  
Peter hugged Neal tightly, holding him like he’d never let him go. "I – just …"  
  
"You’ve given me an out, remember?"  
  
"Yes, of course I do." That day when Neal finally told them what had happened to him, why he’d been dodging them, he had promised Neal that if he needed to leave, ever, neither he nor Elizabeth would stop him.  
  
"Then trust yourself." Neal lifted his head and brushed a kiss across Peter’s lips. "You just said you’re falling in love with me. You’re not a man who’d ever hurt those he loves. I’ve known that from the moment I laid eyes on you."  
  
"How can you be so certain?" Peter wanted to accept Neal’s trust, but he had to understand the basis of it. Neal’s answer, though, surprised and confused him.  
  
"Satchmo."  
  
"Huh? What does my dog have to do with anything?"  
  
Neal’s smile was pure sweetness. "He’s perfectly behaved."  
  
"He jumps on you."  
  
"He’s a puppy, still. That’s what puppies do." Neal pulled him into the bedroom. "If you were mistreating him, he’d be skittish and aggressive. He’d cower, he’d misbehave – and I don’t mean jumping and licking my face. He’d be destructive. He loves you, he looks to you like the sun rises and sets on you."  
  
Peter began to relax, understanding what Neal was saying. "I feed him bacon."  
  
Neal chuckled. "You _used to_ to feed him bacon."  
  
"Okay, okay. You can trust me because I love my dog."  
  
"Basically, yeah."  
  
Peter thought that this might be the oddest pre-coital conversation he ever had. He still need to reassure Neal, "If I ever …"  
  
"You won’t, but if you – I will let you know that you’ve crossed a line."  
  
"And you trust me to pull back?"  
  
"Absolutely. I have faith in you and your better nature."  
  
There was really nothing more to say. They were in the bedroom, not more than three feet from the king-sized bed that dominated the space. And despite the odd conversation and his own fears, there was no way he was going to let that bed go unused tonight. "I want to make love to you, Neal. Now, tonight, and probably for a hundred, a thousand other nights. I want you to want that, too."  
  
Neal licked his lips, his blue eyes glowing in the room’s dim light. "Yes, I want it." He took Peter’s hand and pressed it against his groin. Peter squeezed the hard, hot cock that leaped against his palm. Neal let out a breathless laugh. "See, my body can’t lie."  
  
Peter had to let out an answering laugh. "No, I guess not." He kissed Neal again, pushing him back the few short steps to the edge of the bed. Neal fell back, splayed across the mattress like some enticing houri, arms over his head, thighs parted.  
  
"God, you’re going to make me a little crazy." Peter wondered if that was too much.  
  
Apparently not. "Just a little?"  
  
Peter growled and joined him on the bed, crouching over him. "You." He pressed a biting kiss against Neal’s mouth. "Are." And another at his jaw. "Perfect." The last kiss was more of a sharp nip on Neal’s earlobe.  
  
Neal surged up against him, and Peter pushed him back down, his hands going everywhere, pulling at Neal’s clothes because he needed to touch skin the way he needed oxygen.  
  
His urgency was contagious, and he tried not to become distracted as Neal’s own hand hands tugged and pulled at his shirt. Suddenly they were both naked from the waist up. That was okay – if just for the moment – he wanted to explore Neal, to learn him. But Neal pushed back, and to Peter’s delight, he was unwilling to surrender, to fully give in to the masterful streak that was as much a part of Peter as his brown eyes.  
  
"Please, let me – just let me touch you." Neal sounded a little desperate, more than a little needy. Peter rolled off him and they reversed positions.  
  
"Go ahead." He leaned back against the mass of pillows, his arms above his head in conscious mimicry of Neal’s earlier posture.   
  
"I want to touch you, I want to know you." Neal ran a finger from Peter’s jaw to his neck and came to rest at the base of his throat, circling the mole. Peter’s pulse jumped as he felt the answering beat under Neal’s fingertips. The gentle stroking of that odd bit of flesh was an intimacy as arousing as a kiss. Neal’s fingers lingered there, petting and stroking, until he finally pressed his lips against it, like he had just a few mornings earlier. Neal licked it, the tip of his tongue exploring, tasting, so obviously enjoying what he found there.   
  
It should have been ridiculous, of all the parts of his body to be worshipped, but Neal’s mouth and fingers were making him insane. A sound erupted out of his mouth, a scream of desire, when Neal bit down gently on his throat.  
  
And Neal was far from done with him, even after his teeth and tongue released him. He continued to explore Peter like a blind man, using just his fingertips, first seeking out the sensitive places – the fold of skin where chest meets shoulder meets armpit, and he didn’t hesitate to follow the line and traced the path of the hair that curled in dampness with his mouth before burying his face in Peter’s armpit.  
  
"What are you doing to me?"  
  
Neal looked up. He seemed like some fey, fantastical creature come to earth, just for a night. "Learning you – all of you."  
  
Peter shivered, but he let Neal return to his all-too-pleasurable task. This time, he focused on the scars, paying special attention the ones left by his shooter’s gun, but not neglecting the other nicks and flaws.  
  
He tried to be patient, to stay relaxed under the intensity of Neal’s exploration, but it was too difficult.   
  
Peter wrapped his arms around Neal, halting his progress as their bodies intertwined. But Neal had a leg between his and was riding Peter’s thigh. It was a slow ride, the pressure of Neal’s thigh against his groin was a bearable pain, just enough to keep him from going over the edge too quickly.   
  
He took advantage of Neal’s shirtless state and ran his hands up his torso, savoring the feel of his skin—like velvet over steel—his chest flawless and smooth, with just a few fine curls disappearing into his waistband. Peter wanted to follow that trail, but for now, he was letting Neal remain in charge.   
  
Neal was back in explorer mode, still just using his fingertips and it was hard to not to get impatient. He wanted more than these delicate, teasing strokes and he wasn’t above begging.  
  
"You’re killing me, you know."  
  
Neal didn’t answer directly; he just gave Peter a wicked smile and continued the torture until he finally touched Peter’s nipples. They were tight, hard like pebbles, and Peter locked his eyes on Neal’s as Neal pinched them.  
  
"Do you like that?" Peter hissed and Neal pinched them again. Neal repeated the question. "Do you like that?"   
  
Peter finally answered. "Yes, and don’t stop."  
  
"Why were you so stubborn?"  
  
Peter let out a chuff of laughter and closed his eyes, still willing – at least for the moment – to let Neal call the shots.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal was stunned by the beauty of the image before him: Peter laying there, acquiescent, willing, but not submissive. His power was dormant, like a resting tiger, or maybe a wolf waiting for his prey in the shadowed forest. He knew that this wouldn't last too much longer, so he took full advantage of the moment.   
  
He was still crouched over, surrounding him like a cage. He kissed him again, a soft kiss against his lips. Peter remained passive, so he deepened it, biting softly at his lower lip. Just as Peter began to respond with a low growl, Neal let go and kissed his chin, licking at the late day beard, delighting in the roughness of it against his tongue. When Peter lifted his head, Neal couldn't help but feel like he was the big cat, and Peter his prey. He bit down gently, barely hard enough to mark, and certainly not hard enough to bruise. He was rewarded when Peter’s hips surged up, rocking hard against him, the evidence of his pleasure almost burning him.  
  
Neal's tongue again lingered at the mole at the base of Peter’s throat, then moved down, licking at Peter’s nipples—swollen from the torment he'd inflicted earlier—before working his way down to his abdomen. He gripped Peter’s ribs firmly, holding him in place while he teased at his belly button, licking just the rim with his tongue.  
  
Peter moaned, panting slightly. Neal looked up and their eyes met over the sweaty expanse of Peter's torso. Peter licked his lips and said, "I’m going to do that to your ass someday."  
  
In an instant, Neal felt himself losing control, losing the will, even, to control the scene, as he thought about Peter licking him there. But he had Peter quiescent under his hand and managed to refocus on what he was doing, going back to work on Peter’s navel, fucking it with his tongue, toying with it, torturing it.  
  
He sensed that Peter was about to go over the edge. Or maybe it was the way the damp spot on the front of his jeans was so rapidly growing. It took some effort, but he got the first button opened, and then the second. He struggled with the rest, but Peter gave him a hand, literally - shoving his right hand down his fly, his palm pressing his cock down and Neal was finally able to rip open the rest of his fly. Peter kept his hand there, an oddly protective gesture, until he started stroking himself under his boxers.   
  
Neal watched Peter’s hand move for a few moments, unbearably aroused, before he pulled off Peter’s shorts. He wanted to see Peter's cock, hard and ready for him. He crouched at Peter's feet and pressed a kiss against the back of the hand that was still stroking. "Come on, let me see all of it."  
  
Peter let his hand fall to his hip and Neal gasped. He knew Peter was a big man, but this was unexpected.  
  
"You are a beast, Peter Burke." Neal hadn’t intended to vocalize that thought. "Now I know why you dominate every room you walk into."  
  
Peter chuckled weakly. "Very funny."  
  
"I’m not joking." Neal looked at it again, trying to bring some long-dormant artist's perspective to it. "I mean, it's perfectly proportioned - but, damn." Neal smiled. At one point, before his life had taken such a disastrous turn, he'd had something of a size kink. Peter's dick brought that back into full bloom.  
  
Peter shifted his leg, bringing one up against Neal's groin. "Bet you're not a small man either, Neal Caffrey."  
  
"You'll find out soon enough." Neal managed to pull Peter's jeans and boxers all the way off, smiling at the image of a man naked except for a pair of black socks. His smile died when he saw the mass of scars on Peter's thigh - runnels and groove of scar tissue, a fist-sized indentation covered by skin that was almost unnaturally smooth. Peter moved to cover it, but there was no way that Neal was going to let him. He worshipped it, trying to convey without words the sorrow he felt over such a grave injury, his gratitude to the doctors who saved the leg and Peter's life, and to Peter, for having the strength of will to overcome the damage and rebuild himself.  
Tears welled and dampened the hot skin.  
  
"Enough, enough." Peter pulled Neal up and in his arms. "It’s my turn, now."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
He worshipped Neal, exploring his body much as Neal had explored his, searching for all the hidden erogenous zones, like the tiny fold of skin in front of his armpit, the dense musculature that framed his collarbone, the deep cup in his throat. Peter didn’t let a single bit of skin go untouched. He learned Neal, his pleasures, his truths, through his lips and tongue and the glide of his fingertips.   
  
Neal writhed under him, his eyes stayed closed, his face that of an angel fallen into ecstasy. He arched his back and uttered a single word, a prayer, a plea. "Peter…"   
  
Peter understood the gift that was offered in this, the trust and faith that was placed in his hands. They could talk about the past, about their fears, about desire and need until the world fell to pieces, but now they both needed to marry action with words. He pulled back just enough to make Neal whimper and open his eyes.  
  
Peter smiled at him. "I want you as naked as I am." Neal smiled back and relaxed against the bed as Peter pulled of his pants and briefs. "So you don’t always go commando."  
  
"No – that was a special occasion." Neal rolled his hips, so obviously hungry for his touch.  
  
Peter figured he’d get that story another time. There was more enticing avenues of investigation before him.  
  
"And you had the nerve to comment about my dick…"  
  
Neal laughed, "But you’ll be the one fucking me."   
  
"If that’s what you want."  
  
Neal leaned up on one elbow, looking at Peter down the length of his body. "Yes."  
  
Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat; he understood all the implications in that single syllable.  
  
Neal arched his body again, his hard, hot cock brushing against Peter’s cheek. He couldn’t resist the invitation offered. Neal was so aroused that his dick was nearly flush with his lower belly, the tip almost reaching his navel.  
  
Peter breathed over that cock, and the warm stream of air aroused Neal still further, his balls began to draw up tight and a drop of precome pearled through his slit. He licked a single strip with the flat of his tongue, from base to tip, and then back down.   
  
Neal moaned as Peter started to suckle his balls, taking one, then the other into his mouth, laving each one with his tongue before letting it slide out with a wet pop. Peter licked him again, teasing along the big vein, under the hood, dipping into his leaking slit before engulfing the head with his mouth.  
  
He held Neal down at his hips, refusing to let him surge up into his mouth. His throat was relaxed, his mouth filled with saliva as he swallowed Neal almost all the way down. There was an art to this, and while Peter might not have the ability to paint or draw or sculpt, he loved giving head and considered himself as much of a grand master as Michelangelo. Peter reveled in his skill, knowing how to bring maximum pleasure to his partners, but Neal was so big, his desire was so urgent that it took all his strength to control him.  
  
When Neal’s hands grasped his head, his fingernails scraping against his scalp, Peter almost lost control. Everyone had a private erogenous zone, and this was his. Peter didn’t block out the sensation of Neal’s fingers in his hair, but he forced himself to concentrate on the feel of his dick in his mouth. He slide up, just barely keeping the head in his mouth, and then almost all of the way down again. He could feel the count the pulse beats in the big veins against his lips, and he swallowed the precome that was continuously leaking. Peter moved his mouth up and down one more time before he let go of Neal’s hips, cupping his hands around his cock.   
  
Neal orgasmed, filling Peter’s mouth with sweet-bitter semen. He swallowed until he couldn’t anymore; finally letting Neal’s cock slide all of the way out of his mouth and looked up the length of Neal’s body. Neal’s dazed, wrecked, there were tears streaming out of his closed eyes. Peter couldn’t tell if Neal was just panting or if he was sobbing.  
  
Peter swallowed again, licked his lips and climbed back up the bed, until they were face to face. He brushed his hand against Neal’s damp cheek, gently against his forehead, tangling a little in his sweat-soaked curls. Neal _was_ crying. "What’s the matter?" He was troubled, worried that he did something wrong. That he went too far and somehow triggered something bad for Neal.  
  
Neal finally opened his eyes and looked at Peter, the blue almost completely taken over by his blown pupils. Neal’s mouth opened, but no words formed. He surged up against Peter and kissed him as if the universe was about to end. Or maybe as it had just been born anew.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal wasn’t sure how he was still alive, if he was still alive, except that it shouldn’t feel this good to be dead. The orgasm that Peter pulled out of him was devastating, but it was more than mechanics and friction, more than the feel of a skilled mouth on his cock. It was the absolute intimacy of the act that wrecked him. It had been so long since he allowed anyone to be this close to him, so long since he trusted anyone – including himself - enough to become that vulnerable.   
  
When he opened his eyes, he was looking right into Peter’s, and he was swallowed whole by their brilliant darkness. He tried to tell Peter what he was feeling, but he couldn’t make the words come out. It was clear that Peter was worried, that he was afraid that somehow he’d hurt him. Neal wanted to comfort him, tell him it was okay, but the words still wouldn’t form and all he could think was that he needed to kiss Peter, that he wanted to crawl into his skin, give back at least some of the pleasure he had just received.  
  
He kissed Peter, tasting himself on the other man’s lips, on his tongue, in his mouth and he felt himself growing hard again. The need to impress himself on Peter, to burn himself into the other man’s soul was so urgent and all-consuming that it shocked him and he broke their kiss.  
  
Peter threaded a hand through his hair and tried to bring him back into their kiss, but Neal didn’t let him. "Neal? Are you all right? "  
  
Neal finally found the words. "Yes, yes, yes." He felt like he could say that for eternity. "I’m fine and you’re perfect and I never want this to end. I’m yours forever." He was stunned by his own words, the admission was almost too easy to make.  
  
Peter didn’t reply, and now Neal was the one who was worried that he went too far, that he said too much. He opened his mouth to retract, to apologize, but Peter put a gentle finger against his lips and smiled.   
  
"Thank you." The words were simple and stark and heartfelt.   
  
They remained like that for a heartbeat, then another. Neal kissed Peter fingers and rested his head against the other man. "We’re not done, you know." Neal slid a hand down Peter’s body, capturing his hard, heavy cock. "Not by a long shot." He stroked him, loving how the flesh surged against his palm.  
  
"Are you sure?" Peter whispered. "I don’t need …"  
  
Neal angled his neck and looked up. "I’m going to be selfish, you know. I need this, I want this. I want you to fuck me. It’s been too damn long and I want you too damn much to wait anymore."   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter gazed down at Neal, his dark hair haloed by the pure white cotton pillowcase. "I want this, too. But tell me if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, anything that frightens you, okay?"  
  
Neal nodded. "I don’t think you can ever make me uncomfortable." He rubbed his thigh against Peter’s massively erect cock, and joked, "At least emotionally. Physically … "  
  
"I’ll treat you like spun glass."  
  
"No, you’ll treat me like a man. I’m not going to break from a good, hard fucking." Peter seemed skeptical, but Neal just tilted his head back in invitation.  
  
Which Peter accepted without any more hesitation. He set his teeth against Neal’s throat, his neck, the delicate lobe of his ear, closing gently, trying not to leave visible marks. Neal moved in restless waves beneath him, their bodies aligned, unjoined. Peter felt Neal’s cock, so recently spent, twitch to life against his own aching, hard dick.  
  
He released the precious flesh. "Tell me you want this." Peter whispered against Neal’s skin, cool marble clothed in hot silk and velvet. "Tell me."  
  
"Yes, yes." Neal repeated, a whine of desire. "Don’t you believe me?"  
  
"I do – I just want to hear you say it." He flipped Neal onto his stomach, but he wasn’t going to take him - not yet. Peter wanted to explore, to learn, to gather all that was Neal Caffrey into him. He was like some beautiful, fey creature - narrow, not small - but perfectly built.   
  
But it wasn’t all of Neal’s body that was driving him a little crazy, just one small, delicious part of it. The back of his head - his dark curls damp from perspiration, exposing the nape of his neck, that exquisite point where a man’s strength meets vulnerability.   
  
Peter leaned over and pressed a kiss at that spot, flicking out his tongue, tasting again the residue of a day’s hard work, and the heady musk of new sweat. The feel of those damp curls against his nose, so seemingly innocent, incited some atavistic, possessive beast in him. Peter fought to control it as he fit his body onto Neal’s, his cock riding that hot, sweet crack. Neal shifted restlessly.  
  
Peter had to ask, because the past was never far from his mind. "You want this? Are you okay?" He held his breath, waiting for the answer.  
  
"Yes, Peter, please. I want this, I want _you_." Neal’s voice rose and fell like his hips against Peter’s body. "I want you, I need you. Please."  
  
He must have taken leave of his senses when he pressed Neal down into the mattress, impressing his strength on him. Neal stiffened, pushed back, refusing to fully submit. He pressed down harder and Neal began to thrash, to fight him.  
  
"Peter, damn it, let me go."  
  
He did instantly, moving completely off of Neal’s body, and out of the bed. Neal flipped over, panting; there was a wariness in his eyes now. Peter felt his desire flag, then die. "I’m – I’m sorry. I – " Words failed him. He had crossed the line.  
  
"No - no. I just…" Neal stopped, grimaced. "I want this. I just … it’s been a long time since I’ve been in this position." It all came out in a rush. Neal ducked his head.  
  
Peter was appalled at himself. After all the care and concern he’d expressed – the months of careful wooing, he’d just treated Neal like some anonymous fuck. "I don’t know what came over me - I’m not usually like this."  
  
"Like what?" Neal seemed genuinely curious.  
  
"So possessive. Damn, I was like an animal." Peter moved to get off the bed, to put some distance between them. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"Hey, no. Don’t go." Neal held out a hand, grabbed his arm. Peter allowed himself to be pulled back. "I liked it. The last, though - I just wasn’t expecting it."  
  
"Are you sure you’re okay?"  
  
Neal nodded, slowly at first, then with more vigor. "I’m all right. I want this."  
  
Peter ran his hand through his hair, "We’ll go slowly."  
  
"Slowly, I can do slowly." Neal grinned and stretched out against the white bedding.  
  
"You – you’re going to drive me insane." This time, Peter didn’t fall on him like an animal. He took his time, using his hands and mouth to build a fire in Neal, to make him want and know nothing that existed past this room.  
  
Peter looked down at Neal’s cock, massively erect and tight against his belly. It was truly a thing of beauty and he thought about going down on him. His mouth watered, but they’d save that for later, because there would definitely be _a later_.  
  
He soothed him. "Shh, shh. Gotta take care of you. You want this? You still want this?" This time, the question wasn’t driven by compulsion, but by concern.  
  
"Yes - don’t stop. I’ll die if you stop."   
  
That was all he needed to hear. Peter rolled off Neal’s body for a second and retrieved the condoms and lube he’d put in the night table drawer earlier that day, in the hope that he’d end up here with Neal.   
  
Neal spread his legs wide. It would be easier for both of them if Neal was on his belly, but for this first time, they needed to do this face-to-face.  
  
The slick was cool against his fingers and he warmed it before touching Neal.   
  
"Nnn, Peter … " His finger met natural resistance.  
  
"Relax, can you relax?"  
  
Neal tried and Peter was able to breach him. He worked gently, slowly stretching the tight muscles, adding more lube and another finger. Neal bit his lip and Peter thought he’d never see anything more beautiful. More lube, a third finger and Neal’s hips were humping the air as he worked them back and forth.  
  
"I want you - I want your cock." Neal tried to pull himself up, grabbing at Peter’s arms.  
  
"Okay - you’re sure?"  
  
"Yes, damn it. I want you. How many times am I going to have to tell you?"  
  
Peter felt a grin spread across his face. "You’re awfully bossy."  
  
"But you still like me, right?" Neal’s lips curved into a teasing smile.  
  
The humor was as powerful an aphrodisiac as anything he’d ever experienced. Peter kissed him - slowly devouring that mouth, sass and all. Neal was rubbing himself against his belly, leaving hot streaks of pre-come on his skin. He lifted Neal’s leg over his hip and rubbed the tip of it against his slicked up hole. And pulled back.  
  
Neal whimpered in distress. "Hold on, give me a sec." Peter reached for the condom on the night table, tore open the foil packet, sheathed himself and added some slick.  
  
In that first moment of penetration, Neal’s erection began to flag and he bit his lip, but this time it wasn’t in thwarted desire.  
  
"Sorry, it’s going to hurt, just a bit." Peter forced himself to go slowly, achingly so, giving Neal time to adjust with each millimeter of penetration.   
  
They found their rhythm, slow, careful, like some exquisite tango. Neal was panting, urging him to go faster, wrapping his legs around his waist, drawing him closer. Peter resisted. "No, Neal - don’t rush this. I don’t want to hurt you."  
  
He kept up the long, slow thrusts, he wanted to imprint himself on Neal, he wanted this to never end. The slide of skin and slick and sweat, the taste of Neal, the scent of them, together was maddening - for both of them. Orgasm caught them both by surprise. Neal came first, his body clamping down tight on Peter, pulling it out of him, making the universe burn white.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter was still on top of him, his weight almost uncomfortable, but Neal didn't think he could move. And in truth, he didn't want to. If he died right now, he'd die a happy, contented and very satisfied man.   
  
He was actually a little sorry when Peter came to his senses and rolled off him. "Are you okay?"   
  
"I'm fine. Better than fine." He wanted to tell Peter that he'd never been better in his entire life, but this wasn't the time for that.   
  
Peter leaned up on one elbow and brushed the curls off of Neal’s forehead. There was a grave expression in his eyes. "You sure?"  
  
Neal reached up and touched Peter's face. "Yes. I'm absolutely, utterly and completely positive. He kissed him, trying to give the reassurance that Peter needed.  
  
It worked and Peter responded, and the kiss became something slow and lingering, golden and hazy around the edges. All desire but nothing urgent as they feasted on each other.  
  
Peter murmured something about getting them cleaned up. He got out of bed and Neal was chilled, but not so uncomfortable that the needed to move under the covers. He heard the water running, as if from a great distance. Peter returned and Neal gave him a lazy smile.  
  
"You're beautiful, you know."  
  
"You're crazy, you know."  
  
"Hmmm, maybe. But you're still beautiful."   
  
Peter laughed and kissed him on the tip of his nose. "Can you scoot over?"  
  
Neal moved and Peter managed to get the covers out of the way. He ran the washcloth over Neal's torso and down his body, wiping away the sweat and come before disappearing again. Only to return with a dry towel.  
  
Peter dried him off and his eyes drifted shut. He was safe and happy and loved. All Neal wanted at the moment was to sleep. A thought occurred and his eyes snapped open.   
  
"Peter?"  
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
"Will you..." Neal bit his lip, unable to finish the question. In his head, he sounded so needy.  
  
But Peter seemed to understand. "Of course I will, there's no question about that." Peter climbed back into the enormous bed and turned Neal around, tucking his head into his shoulder.   
  
"I’m sorry."  
  
"Haven't we talked about unnecessary apologies?" He placed a soft kiss on Neal’s cheek.  
  
"You’re not going anywhere?" Neal relaxed against him.  
  
"No. I’ll be here when you wake."

 

  
  
  


  
  
Nights like this, Elizabeth truly loved her work. Not that she didn't always enjoy being a successful business owner, but it was events like this one that made her remember why she started Burke Premier Events in the first place.   
  
Because she could pull miracles out of her ass.  
  
Four days ago, she took a call from a distraught man. He and his fiancé were supposed to be getting married on Friday night, but it had become a series of cascading disasters. First, their celebrant had come down with a horrific case of shingles. While they were scrambling to replace her, the restaurant where the reception was to be held was closed by the Board of Health for a C rating. Something about rats. If it was just a matter of a few friends, they'd reschedule the whole thing. But one set of parents had already flown in from Denmark and the other set, well, the man said something about a brain tumor and three months to live.   
  
At least they had their tuxedos.  
  
David Bloom told her that he'd gotten her name from Steven Millstein, who said she worked a major miracle with the opening of the new media wing at the Gershon Museum. (She had.) Stefan had been David's housemate during their second year at Yale Law and they both sat on the Gershon's Board of Directors.  
  
She had four days to find a celebrant who would perform a same-sex, interfaith ceremony, as well as locate a venue big enough to seat and serve fifty guests. If she could pull that off, David and Aleksander would have her plan their "big" party (David said something about five or six hundred attendees and the Hamptons. She thought that was kind of ludicrous until she did a little research on her new clients. They weren't bold-faced names, but bankers and lawyers for said BFNs.)  
  
El knew that in New York City, nothing was impossible, and dinner for fifty was barely a blip on the radar. The challenge was giving the men an evening to remember.  
  
She had set Yvonne on the somewhat difficult task of locating a celebrant who would perform a Jewish ceremony when one of the grooms wasn't Jewish and wasn’t interesting in converting. It wouldn't have been a problem to locate a rabbi willing to marry a same-sex couple, but an interfaith one could be a challenge.   
  
El, however, needed to make only one phone call - to her dear friend Asher. His restaurant, Brasserie Ben-Gali was doing well, but had only been opened for three months and was still trying to find traction in the highly competitive New York dining scene. It didn't take much to convince Asher to give her BBG's back room for the entire night.  
  
There were a hundred other details to sort out in the short window she had, but those were all part of the service she provided.  
  
Yvonne came up aces, and the couple had their legal and religious ceremony in their Central Park South duplex early Friday evening. Just the men's parents attended. Two hours later, the fun started at the restaurant and went off without a single hitch, probably because Elizabeth spent most of the evening running interference between the kitchen and the wait staff and the grooms, a pair of overachieving fussbudgets.  
  
Not that she minded. This was why they hired and were paying her exorbitant fee. Long ago, El learned that if she didn't put a premium on her services, no one else would. Miracles didn't come cheaply.  
  
It was close to one in the morning and the happy couple was seeing the last of their guests off.   
  
"Went well, I'd say." Asher was standing behind her, his deep voice rumbled pleasantly.  
  
El stretched her neck, trying to work out a few kinks. "I would most definitely agree."   
  
One of the grooms approached - Aleksander, who looked like he had more than a little Viking blood in him. Elizabeth held out her hands to him, and he took them before giving her a very Continental greeting on both cheeks. "You truly are a miracle worker, Elizabeth Burke."  
  
She grinned. "I know."  
  
The man laughed. "This really has been an evening to remember. We hadn't planned it like this, but I can't imagine my wedding any different now."   
  
His new husband joined them, and agreed. "I owe Steven a huge favor. If he hadn't given me your name, Aleks and I would have had to cancel everything."  
  
"Well, I do love a good challenge. And four days was more than enough time to do this."   
  
David raised an eyebrow at that. "Really, then you're going to waive your surcharge?"  
  
She lightly slapped at him. "Not in the least."  
  
"Nor am I," Asher added. He'd been introduced to the grooms earlier in the week, when they set the menu.  
  
David laughed. "Good, because I'd hate to have to redo these." He handed checks to the two of them. Elizabeth looked into the envelope to confirm the amount and tried to not reveal her astonishment. The payment was half again as large as the amount she'd charged them.  
  
Both grooms bade them good night and with their departure, the remaining wait staff set to cleaning up. Asher took her elbow and steered her towards his office. "Come, let's have drink and relax. Your feet must be killing you."  
  
"Mmm, yes. I could use something." And now that Asher had mentioned it, her feet _were_ aching.   
  
Asher's office was comfortable, with a deep and wide leather couch, a small bar and a slightly cluttered desk. "What can I get you?"  
  
"How about an espresso?" El leaned back and kicked off her shoes. Yes, her feet were definitely killing her.  
  
She watched Asher as he fussed with the machine. He was a good looking man, one of those who only got better as the years passed. Much like her husband.  
  
"What's that sigh for?"   
  
"Just thinking about the unfairness of things."  
  
"Really? What's the matter?"  
  
"Men - you get older and you're distinguished. Women count the years and they just grow old."  
  
The machine finished its sputtering performance and Asher turned back to her with a tiny cup in hand. "Only if you're shallow. A woman's beauty is not in the smoothness of her skin or the firmness of her ass. True beauty comes from the soul."  
  
El laughed. "Yeah, says the man with perfect wings of gray in his full head of hair."  
  
"Ah, but I've got the makings of a comfortable paunch." Asher pulled his chef's jacket tight - proving that he did have a slight belly.  
  
"I don't think I could trust a chef and restaurateur with a perfect six-pack."  
  
Asher sat down next to her. "Here, let's get comfortable." He took Elizabeth's feet and put them on his lap, giving her a questioning look.  
  
El didn't hesitate. "Yes, please." Asher was a man of many talents, not all of them confined to the kitchen or the bedroom. He gave the best massages.  
  
As he worked on her aching feet, he began a not-so-subtle interrogation. "What's going on with you, Elizabeth Burke?"  
  
She groaned as his thumb rubbed and worked at a particularly tender spot. "Nothing much."  
  
"No? That's not what I'm sensing."  
  
"Mmmmm."   
  
"I could stop if you don't tell me."  
  
"You wouldn't dare."  
  
"Watch." Asher's hands stilled.  
  
"You're a bastard, you know that?"   
  
"My parents would be insulted, if they'd actually been married." He relented and started rubbing her feet again.  
  
El closed her eyes and groaned. What Asher was doing to her felt way too good. "I'm putty in your hands."  
  
"Then tell me what's really going on with Elizabeth Burke, and why she's sitting on my couch with her feet in my lap instead of rushing home to be with her handsome and oh-so-delicious husband?"   
  
She opened one eye and peered at the man. "Are you only interested in my oh-so-delicious husband?" When they’d been together, originally, Asher had gravitated towards Peter.  
  
Asher lifted her right foot and brought it to his lips. The kiss was sweet and sexy at the same time. "I've always been interested in both of you. But Peter sat on this very couch about three months ago and in the kindest possible way made it clear that neither of you were looking for anything outside of your marriage. Has that changed?"  
  
El opened her other eye and pulled her feet away from Asher, tucking them under her thighs as she sat up. "Things are a little different, right now."  
  
"Peter had said that there was someone, but it wasn't working out."  
  
They were heading into dangerous territory. Neal's story wasn't hers to tell, but she needed to give Asher something of the truth. "That's what changed."  
  
"Ah. So the pursued decided he wanted to be caught?"  
  
"In a way. And his name is Neal."  
  
"Do you object?"  
  
"Oh, no - not at all. Neal's …" She tried to think of a way to describe him without giving too much away. "He's never been part of a poly relationship. And that’s really not the stumbling block. He's smart, though, and he understands what we're asking of him - it's just that – " El scrunched up her face, stymied. "He's got a past."  
  
"We all do, _shaiyna_. "  
  
"Well, Neal's is a bit out of the ordinary."  
  
"Ah, he's got baggage." Asher got up and went to the bar and poured something. He gestured with a bottle of Sambuca. “Want some?”  
  
El declined. "Not tonight, I still need to drive home. And yes, Neal has baggage."  
  
"But not enough to deter you or your husband?"  
  
"Maybe if we'd met Neal before the shooting." She sighed. "He makes Peter happy, though."  
  
"And does that make you _un_ happy?"  
  
"No! Not in the least. Peter's having a difficult time at this stage. His physical recovery is going slowly and he's still not cleared for desk duty and that's killing him."  
  
"So, this Neal distracts him from his problems?"  
  
"Yes, but it's more than that. It's complicated."  
  
"Life's complicated." Asher gave her a considering look over his glass. "You don't mind Peter's relationship with him, but he's not what you want, right?"  
  
"Yeah." El stretched out again, but kept her feet to herself. "I like Neal. I wouldn't kick him out of bed. But I just want something a little simpler, a little less complicated, right now."  
  
Asher smiled. "I can do simple. I'm not complicated."  
  
Elizabeth laughed. "Oh, Asher Ben Gali, you are as complicated as a Rubik's Cube."  
  
"But if you know the key, I'm pretty easy to solve."  
  
She nodded. "Maybe you are what I need. For a little while."  
  
"Have you talked with Peter?"  
  
"About you?"  
  
Asher nodded, all levity gone. "I know your rules, and I've always respected them."  
  
"We've talked. Not about us getting together, but I did tell Peter that I'd be seeing you tonight. He sends his best regards."  
  
"Your husband always had the most exquisite manners."  
  
"I didn't want to say anything specific, in case you weren't interested."  
  
"I'd have to be dead not to be interested in you, Elizabeth Burke."  
  
"Or involved with someone else."  
  
Asher nodded his head, conceding her point.  
  
"So?"  
  
"So." His eyes not leaving hers, Asher reached out and slid his hand along her calf, up to her knee. When she didn't move, his hand kept going, stopping just short of her panties.   
  
El caught her breath, suddenly unsure if she was ready to move this quickly.  
  
"But not tonight." Asher removed his hand. "We're both more than a little tired. And I think the three of us need to have a meal together."  
  
She smiled. "Maybe Peter will cook for you."  
  
Asher chuckled. "Yes, I haven't forgotten your husband's skills in the kitchen. That's where we met."  
  
She tilted her head back and laughed. "I'd forgotten. You were teaching a class at the Annex."  
  
"And you could barely boil water."  
  
"I still can't."  
  
"I shouted at you."  
  
"You did - you were terribly mean and temperamental."  
  
"You nearly sliced your thumb off."  
  
"You were making me nervous."  
  
"I thought Peter was going to punch me."  
  
"He probably would have, if you hadn't apologized so sweetly."  
  
"I'm all bark and no bite."  
  
"You're just a big softie."  
  
"Especially when I'm faced with the two most dominant people I've ever had the pleasure to meet."  
  
"Ah, Asher - you don't roll over for just anyone."  
  
“No, I don’t. But you’re both worth it.”  
  
They sat there for a few minutes, and despite the espresso, El felt herself dozing off. "I think I need to get home."  
  
"You'll be all right?"  
  
She stood up, found her shoes and slipped them on. "Yeah, I'll be fine. It's a short ride home and there's no traffic at this hour."  
  
Asher peered up at her. "Are you sure? I wouldn't mind taking you home, or getting a car for you if you'd prefer."  
  
"Like I said, you're a big softie - but I'll be fine. I've worked longer hours than this." She leaned over and kissed Asher's cheek.   
  
Asher stood up. "If you're going to kiss me, then do it right." He cupped her cheek and pressed his mouth against hers.   
  
The kiss was pure and uncomplicated pleasure. He was as tall as Peter, but unlike her husband, he had a well-trimmed beard and mustache. It tickled, but in a good way and she enjoyed the contrasting textures. El opened her mouth and touched Asher's tongue with hers. He tasted of anise and some other exotic spices. She liked it and let the kiss go on.   
  
It was Asher who finally stepped back. "You're making me regret all my good intentions."  
  
She licked her lips, capturing the last taste of the man. "And you're doing the same to me."  
  
"My apartment isn't all that far away… "  
  
"No - I'm going to have to decline."  
  
Asher nodded, understanding. "You and Peter need to talk. And I want to talk with your husband, too."  
  
Elizabeth agreed that it was probably a good idea. The three of them having a civilized meal, setting expectations and ground rules. "What night is good for you?"  
  
"We're closed on Thursdays, how does that sound?"  
  
El mentally reviewed her calendar and couldn't remember a conflict. "Thursday sounds perfect. Eight o'clock and bring wine."  
  
Asher gave her a little bow. "Your wish is my command."  
  
He walked her to her car, and El watched him standing like a sentinel at the curb as she pulled away and headed home.  
  
As Elizabeth crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, her thoughts shifted from Asher to Peter, and, inevitably, to Neal. She wondered if their evening ended the way her husband had hoped it would. The way she hoped it had, too.  
  
The cold, early morning air felt good against her skin. It cleared all the doubts from her head. She would have Asher for a while; he would make her feel like a princess, a queen. She'd be in command, of course - that was her nature - but the decisions she'd need to make with him would be easy ones. When the time came, she knew that Asher would let her go without regret. That was _his_ nature. He saved his intensity for his craft. His passion, his need for drama was confined to his kitchen.  
  
And when she was ready, and not a moment before, she'd close the circle and become part of what Peter and Neal had. Neal was in her heart already, there was no doubt about that. She just needed something else right now.  
  
Elizabeth parked, and let herself into the house. Satchmo was asleep on his bed and there were two almost empty beer bottles on the coffee table.   
  
It looked like Peter got his wish.  
  
She took off her shoes and climbed the stairs. The door to the guest room was closed, but she couldn't help herself. El opened it just a crack. They were there, sleeping. Or at least her husband was. She must have disturbed Neal. Even in the dim light from the hall, she could see his eyes open and a worried expression on his face.   
  
Elizabeth didn't say a word. She just blew him a kiss and closed the door.  
  
They'd have time enough to talk in the morning.  
  


  
_FIN_

  
  


 


End file.
